Romany of the Snows - Gilbert Parker
"Something's wrong there," said Pierre.
"D'ye think 'twas the duck brought it?" asked Macavoy.
Without a word Pierre started away towards the Post, Macavoy following.
As they did so, a half-breed boy came from the house, hurrying towards
them.
Inside the house Hilton's wife lay in her bed, her great hour coming on
before the time, because of ill news from beyond the Guidon. There was
with her an old Frenchwoman, who herself, in her time, had brought many
children into the world, whose heart brooded tenderly, if uncouthly, over
the dumb girl. She it was who had handed to Hilton the paper the wild
duck had brought, after Ida had read it and fallen in a faint on the
floor.
The message that had felled the young wife was brief and awful. A
cloud-burst had fallen on Champak Hill, had torn part of it away, and a
part of this part had swept down into the path that led to the little
house, having been stopped by some falling trees and a great boulder. It
blocked the only way to escape above, and beneath, the river was creeping
up to sweep away the little house. So, there the mother and her children
waited (the father was in the farthest north), facing death below and
above. The wild duck had carried the tale in its terrible simplicity. The
last words were, "There mayn't be any help for me and my sweet chicks,
but I am still hoping, and you must send a man or many. But send soon,
for we are cut off, and the end may come any hour."
Macavoy and Pierre were soon at the Post, and knew from Hilton all there
was to know. At once Pierre began to gather men, though what one or many
could do none could say. Eight white men and three Indians watched the
wild duck sailing away again from the bedroom window where Ida lay, to
carry a word of comfort to Champak Hill. Before it went, Ida asked for
Macavoy, and he was brought to her bedroom by Hilton. He saw a pale,
almost unearthly, yet beautiful face, flushing and paling with a coming
agony, looking up at him; and presently two trembling hands made those
mystic signs which are the primal language of the soul. Hilton
interpreted to him this: "I have sent for you. There is no man so big or
strong as you in the north. I did not know that I should ever ask you to
redeem the note. I want my gift, and I will give you your paper with the
Queen's head on it. Those little lives, those pretty little dears, you
will not see them die. If there is a way, any way, you will save them.
Sometimes one man can do what twenty cannot. You were my wedding-gift: I
claim you now."
She paused, and then motioned to the nurse, who laid the piece of brown
paper in Macavoy's hand. He held it for a moment as delicately as if it
were a fragile bit of glass, something that his huge fingers might crush
by touching. Then he reached over and laid it on the bed beside her and
said, looking Hilton in the eyes, "Tell her, the slip av a saint she is,
if the breakin' av me bones, or the lettin' av me blood's what'll set all
right at Champak Hill, let her mind be aisy--aw yis!"
Soon afterwards they were all on their way--all save Hilton, whose duty
was beside this other danger, for the old nurse said that, "like as not,"
her life would hang upon the news from Champak Hill; and if ill came, his
place was beside the speechless traveller on the Brink.
In a few hours the rescuers stood on the top of Champak Hill, looking
down. There stood the little house, as it were, between two dooms. Even
Pierre's face became drawn and pale as he saw what a very few hours or
minutes might do. Macavoy had spoken no word, had answered no question
since they had left the Post. There was in his eye the large seriousness,
the intentness which might be found in the face of a brave boy, who had
not learned fear, and yet saw a vast ditch of danger at which he must
leap. There was ever before him the face of the dumb wife; there was in
his ears the sound of pain that had followed him from Hilton's house out
into the brilliant day.
The men stood helpless, and looked at each other. They could not say to
the river that it must rise no farther, and they could not go to the
house, nor let a rope down, and there was the crumbled moiety of the hill
which blocked the way to the house: elsewhere it was sheer precipice
without trees.
There was no corner in these hills that Macavoy and Pierre did not know,
and at last, when despair seemed to settle on the group, Macavoy, having
spoken a low word to Pierre, said: "There's wan way, an' maybe I can an'
maybe I can't, but I'm fit to try. I'll go up the river to an aisy p'int
a mile above, get in, and drift down to a p'int below there, thin climb
up and loose the stuff."
Every man present knew the double danger: the swift headlong river, and
the sudden rush of rocks and stones, which must be loosed on the side of
the narrow ravine opposite the little house. Macavoy had nothing to say
to the head-shakes of the others, and they did not try to dissuade him;
for women and children were in the question, and there they were below
beside the house, the children gathered round the mother, she
waiting--waiting.
Macavoy, stripped to the waist, and carrying only a hatchet and a coil of
rope tied round him, started away alone up the river. The others waited,
now and again calling comfort to the woman below, though their words
could not be heard. About half an hour passed, and then someone called
out: "Here he comes!" Presently they could see the rough head and the
bare shoulders of the giant in the wild churning stream. There was only
one point where he could get a hold on the hillside--the jutting bole of
a tree just beneath them, and beneath the dyke of rock and trees.
It was a great moment. The current swayed him out, but he plunged
forward, catching at the bole. His hand seized a small branch. It held
him an instant, as he was swung round, then it snapt. But the other hand
clenched the bole, and to a loud cheer, which Pierre prompted, Macavoy
drew himself up. After that they could not see him. He alone was studying
the situation.
He found the key-rock to the dyked slide of earth. To loosen it was to
divert the slide away, or partly away, from the little house. But it
could not be loosened from above, if at all, and he himself would be in
the path of the destroying hill.
"Aisy, aisy, Tim Macavoy," he said to himself. "It's the woman and the
darlins av her, an' the rose o' the valley down there at the Post!"
A minute afterwards, having chopped down a hickory sapling, he began to
pry at the boulder which held the mass. Presently a tree came crashing
down, and a small rush of earth followed it, and the hearts of the men
above and the woman and children below stood still for an instant. An
hour passed as Macavoy toiled with a strange careful skill and a
superhuman concentration. His body was all shining with sweat, and sweat
dripped like water from his forehead. His eyes were on the keyrock and
the pile, alert, measuring, intent. At last he paused. He looked round at
the hills-down at the river, up at the sky-humanity was shut away from
his sight. He was alone. A long hot breath broke from his pressed lips,
stirring his big red beard. Then he gave a call, a long call that echoed
through the hills weirdly and solemnly.
It reached the ears of those above like a greeting from an outside world.
They answered, "Right, Macavoy!"
Years afterwards these men told how then there came in reply one word,
ringing roundly through the hills--the note and symbol of a crisis, the
fantastic cipher of a soul:
"M'Guire!"
There was a loud booming sound, the dyke was loosed, the ravine split
into the swollen stream its choking mouthful of earth and rock; and a
minute afterwards the path was clear to the top of Champak Hill. To it
came the unharmed children and their mother, who, from the warm peak sent
the wild duck "to the rose o' the valley," which, till the message came,
was trembling on the stem of life. But Joy, that marvellous healer, kept
it blooming with a little Eden bird nestling near, whose happy tongue was
taught in after years to tell of the gift of the Simple King; who had
redeemed, on demand, the promissory note for ever.
ETEXT EDITOR'S BOOKMARKS:
A human life he held to be a trifle in the big sum of time
Fear of one's own wife is the worst fear in the world
He never saw an insult unless he intended to avenge it
Liars all men may be, but that's wid wimmin or landlords
Men are like dogs--they worship him who beats them
She valued what others found useless
Women are half saints, half fools
A ROMANY OF THE SNOWS
BEING A CONTINUATION OF THE PERSONAL HISTORIES OF "PIERRE AND HIS PEOPLE"
AND THE LAST EXISTING RECORDS OF PRETTY PIERRE
By Gilbert Parker
Volume 2.
MALACHI
THE LAKE OF THE GREAT SLAVE
THE RED PATROL
THE GOING OF THE WHITE SWAN
AT BAMBER'S BOOM
MALACHI
"He'll swing just the same to-morrow. Exit Malachi!" said Freddy Tarlton
gravely.
The door suddenly opened on the group of gossips, and a man stepped
inside and took the only vacant seat near the fire. He glanced at none,
but stretched out his hands to the heat, looking at the coals with
drooping introspective eyes.
"Exit Malachi," he said presently in a soft ironical voice, but did not
look up.
"By the holy poker, Pierre, where did you spring from?" asked Tarlton
genially.
"The wind bloweth where it listeth, and--" Pierre responded, with a
little turn of his fingers.
"And the wind doesn't tell where it's been, but that's no reason Pierre
shouldn't," urged the other.
Pierre shrugged his shoulders, but made no answer. "He was a tough," said
a voice from the crowd. "To-morrow he'll get the breakfast he's paid
for." Pierre turned and looked at the speaker with a cold inquisitive
stare. "Mon Dieu!" he said presently, "here's this Gohawk playing
preacher. What do you know of Malachi, Gohawk? What do any of you know
about Malachi? A little of this, a little of that, a drink here, a game
of euchre there, a ride after cattle, a hunt behind Guidon Hill!--But
what is that? You have heard the cry of the eagle, you have seen him
carry off a lamb, you have had a pot-shot at him, but what do you know of
the eagle's nest? Mais non.
"The lamb is one thing, the nest is another. You don't know the eagle
till you've been there. And you, Gohawk, would not understand, if you saw
the nest. Such cancan!"
"Shut your mouth!" broke out Gohawk. "D'ye think I'm going to stand
your--"
Freddy Tarlton laid a hand on his arm. "Keep quiet, Gohawk. What good
will it do?" Then he said, "Tell us about the nest, Pierre; they're
hanging him for the lamb in the morning."
"Who spoke for him at the trial?" Pierre asked.
"I did," said Tarlton. "I spoke as well as I could, but the game was dead
against him from the start. The sheriff was popular, and young;
young--that was the thing; handsome too, and the women, of course! It was
sure from the start; besides, Malachi would say nothing--didn't seem to
care."
"No, not to care," mused Pierre. "What did you say for him to the jury--I
mean the devil of a thing to make them sit up and think, 'Poor
Malachi!'--like that."
"Best speech y'ever heard," Gohawk interjected; "just emptied the words
out, split 'em like peas, by gol! till he got to one place right before
the end. Then he pulled up sudden, and it got so quiet you could 'a heard
a pin drop. 'Gen'lemen of the jury,' says Freddy Tarlton here--gen'lemen,
by gol! all that lot--Lagan and the rest! 'Gen'lemen of the jury,' he
says, 'be you danged well sure that you're at one with God A'mighty in
this; that you've got at the core of justice here; that you've got
evidence to satisfy Him who you've all got to satisfy some day, or git
out. Not evidence as to shootin', but evidence as to what that shootin'
meant, an' whether it was meant to kill, an' what for. The case is like
this, gen'lemen of the jury,' says Freddy Tarlton here. 'Two men are in a
street alone. There's a shot, out comes everybody, and sees Fargo the
sheriff laid along the ground, his mouth in the dust, and a full-up gun
in his fingers. Not forty feet away stands Malachi with a gun smokin' in
his fist. It seems to be the opinion that it was cussedness--just
cussedness--that made Malachi turn the sheriff's boots to the sun. For
Malachi was quarrelsome. I'll give you a quarter on that. And the sheriff
was mettlesome, used to have high spirits, like as if he's lift himself
over the fence with his bootstraps. So when Malachi come and saw the
sheriff steppin' round in his paten' leathers, it give him the needle,
and he got a bead on him--and away went Sheriff Fargo--right away! That
seems to be the sense of the public.' And he stops again, soft and quick,
and looks the twelve in the eyes at once. 'But,' says Freddy Tarlton
here, 'are you goin' to hang a man on the little you know? Or are you
goin' to credit him with somethin' of what you don't know? You haint got
the inside of this thing, and Malachi doesn't let you know it, and God
keeps quiet. But be danged well sure that you've got the bulge on
iniquity here; for gen'lemen with pistols out in the street is one thing,
and sittin' weavin' a rope in a court-room for a man's neck is another
thing,' says Freddy Tarlton here. 'My client has refused to say one word
this or that way, but don't be sure that Some One that knows the inside
of things won't speak for him in the end.' Then he turns and looks at
Malachi, and Malachi was standin' still and steady like a tree, but his
face was white, and sweat poured on his forehead. 'If God has no voice to
be heard for my client in this court-room to-day, is there no one on
earth--no man or woman--who can speak for one who won't speak for
himself?' says Freddy Tarlton here. Then, by gol! for the first time
Malachi opened. 'There's no one,' he says. 'The speakin' is all for the
sheriff. But I spoke once, and the sheriff didn't answer.' Not a bit of
beg-yer-pardon in it. It struck cold. 'I leave his case in the hands of
twelve true men,' says Freddy Tarlton here, and he sits down."
"So they said he must walk the air?" suggested Pierre.
"Without leavin' their seats," someone added instantly.
"So. But that speech of 'Freddy Tarlton here'?" "It was worth twelve
drinks to me, no more, and nothing at all to Malachi," said Tarlton.
"When I said I'd come to him to-night to cheer him up, he said he'd
rather sleep. The missionary, too, he can make nothing of him. 'I don't
need anyone here,' he says. 'I eat this off my own plate.' And that's the
end of Malachi."
"Because there was no one to speak for him--eh? Well, well."
"If he'd said anything that'd justify the thing--make it a manslaughter
business or a quarrel--then! But no, not a word, up or down, high or low.
Exit Malachi!" rejoined Freddy Tarlton sorrowfully. "I wish he'd given me
half a chance."
"I wish I'd been there," said Pierre, taking a match from Gohawk, and
lighting his cigarette.
"To hear his speech?" asked Gohawk, nodding towards Tarlton.
"To tell the truth about it all. T'sh, you bats, you sheep, what have you
in your skulls? When a man will not speak, will not lie to gain a case
for his lawyer--or save himself, there is something! Now, listen to me,
and I will tell you the story of Malachi. Then you shall judge.
"I never saw such a face as that girl had down there at Lachine in
Quebec. I knew her when she was a child, and I knew Malachi when he was
on the river with the rafts, the foreman of a gang. He had a look all
open then as the sun--yes. Happy? Yes, as happy as a man ought to be.
Well, the mother of the child died, and Malachi alone was left to take
care of the little Norice. He left the river and went to work in the
mills, so that he might be with the child; and when he got to be foreman
there he used to bring her to the mill. He had a basket swung for her
just inside the mill not far from him, right where she was in the shade;
but if she stretched out her hand it would be in the sun. I've seen a
hundred men turn to look at her where she swung, singing to herself, and
then chuckle to themselves afterwards as they worked.
"When Trevoor, the owner, come one day, and saw her, he swore, and was
going to sack Malachi, but the child--that little Norice--leaned over the
basket, and offered him an apple. He looked for a minute, then he reached
up, took the apple, turned round, and went out of the mill without a
word--so. Next month when he come he walked straight to her, and handed
up to her a box of toys and a silver whistle. 'That's to call me when you
want me,' he said, as he put the whistle to her lips, and then he put the
gold string of it round her neck. She was a wise little thing, that
Norice, and noticed things. I don't believe that Trevoor or Malachi ever
knew how sweet was the smell of the fresh sawdust till she held it to
their noses; and it was she that had the saws--all sizes--start one after
the other, making so strange a tune. She made up a little song about
fairies and others to sing to that tune. And no one ever thought much
about Indian Island, off beyond the sweating, baking piles of lumber, and
the blistering logs and timbers in the bay, till she told stories about
it. Sure enough, when you saw the shut doors and open windows of those
empty houses, all white without in the sun and dark within, and not a
human to be seen, you could believe almost anything. You can think how
proud Malachi was. She used to get plenty of presents from the men who
had no wives or children to care for--little silver and gold things as
well as others. She was fond of them, but no, not vain. She loved the
gold and silver for their own sake."
Pierre paused. "I knew a youngster once," said Gohawk, "that--"
Pierre waved his hand. "I am not through, M'sieu' Gohawk the talker.
Years went on. Now she took care of the house of Malachi. She wore the
whistle that Trevoor gave her. He kept saying to her still, 'If ever you
need me, little Norice, blow it, and I will come.' He was droll, that
M'sieu' Trevoor, at times. Well, she did not blow, but still he used to
come every year, and always brought her something. One year he brought
his nephew, a young fellow of about twenty-three. She did not whistle for
him either, but he kept on coming. That was the beginning of 'Exit
Malachi.' The man was clever and bad, the girl believing and good. He was
young, but he knew how to win a woman's heart. When that is done, there
is nothing more to do--she is yours for good or evil; and if a man,
through a woman's love, makes her to sin, even his mother cannot be proud
of him-no. But the man married Norice, and took her away to Madison, down
in Wisconsin. Malachi was left alone--Malachi and Trevoor, for Trevoor
felt towards her as a father.
"Alors, sorrow come to the girl, for her husband began to play cards and
to drink, and he lost much money. There was the trouble--the two
together. They lived in a hotel. One day a lady missed a diamond necklace
from her room. Norice had been with her the evening before. Norice come
into her own room the next afternoon, and found detectives searching. In
her own jewel-case, which was tucked away in the pocket of an old dress,
was found the necklace. She was arrested. She said nothing--for she
waited for her husband, who was out of town that day. He only come in
time to see her in court next morning. She did not deny anything; she was
quiet, like Malachi. The man played his part well. He had hid the
necklace where he thought it would be safe, but when it was found, he let
the wife take the blame--a little innocent thing. People were sorry for
them both. She was sent to jail. Her father was away in the Rocky
Mountains, and he did not hear; Trevoor was in Europe. The husband got a
divorce, and was gone. Norice was in jail for over a year, and then she
was set free, for her health went bad, and her mind was going, they
thought. She did not know till she come out that she was divorced. Then
she nearly died. But then Trevoor come."
Freddy Tarlton's hands were cold with excitement, and his fingers
trembled so he could hardly light a cigar.
"Go on, go on, Pierre," he said huskily.
"Trevoor said to her--he told me this himself--'Why did you not whistle
for me, Norice? A word would have brought me from Europe.' 'No one could
help me, no one at all,' she answered. Then Trevoor said, 'I know who did
it, for he has robbed me too.' She sank in a heap on the floor. 'I could
have borne it and anything for him, if he hadn't divorced me,' she said.
Then they cleared her name before the world. But where was the man? No
one knew. At last Malachi, in the Rocky Mountains, heard of her trouble,
for Norice wrote to him, but told him not to do the man any harm, if he
ever found him--ah, a woman, a woman! . . . But Malachi met the man one
day at Guidon Hill, and shot him in the street."
"Fargo the sheriff!" roared half-a-dozen voices. "Yes; he had changed his
name, had come up here, and because he was clever and spent money, and
had a pull on someone,--got it at cards perhaps,--he was made sheriff."
"In God's name, why didn't Malachi speak?" said Tarlton; "why didn't he
tell me this?"
"Because he and I had our own plans. The one evidence he wanted was
Norice. If she would come to him in his danger, and in spite of his
killing the man, good. If not, then he would die. Well, I went to find
her and fetch her. I found her. There was no way to send word, so we had
to come on as fast as we could. We have come just in time."
"Do you mean to say, Pierre, that she's here?" said Gohawk.
Pierre waved his hand emphatically. "And so we came on with a pardon."
Every man was on his feet, every man's tongue was loosed, and each
ordered liquor for Pierre, and asked him where the girl was. Freddy
Tarlton wrung his hand, and called a boy to go to his rooms and bring
three bottles of wine, which he had kept for two years, to drink when he
had won his first big case.
Gohawk was importunate. "Where is the girl, Pierre?" he urged.
"Such a fool as you are, Gohawk! She is with her father."
A half-hour later, in a large sitting-room, Freddy Tarlton was making
eloquent toasts over the wine. As they all stood drinking to Pierre, the
door opened from the hall-way, and Malachi stood before them. At his
shoulder was a face, wistful, worn, yet with a kind of happiness too; and
the eyes had depths which any man might be glad to drown his heart in.
Malachi stood still, not speaking, and an awe or awkwardness fell on the
group at the table.
But Norice stepped forward a little, and said: "May we come in?"
In an instant Freddy Tarlton was by her side, and had her by the hand,
her and her father, drawing them over.
His ardent, admiring look gave Norice thought for many a day.
And that night Pierre made an accurate prophecy.
THE LAKE OF THE GREAT SLAVE
When Tybalt the tale-gatherer asked why it was so called, Pierre said:
"Because of the Great Slave;" and then paused.
Tybalt did not hurry Pierre, knowing his whims. If he wished to tell, he
would in his own time; if not, nothing could draw it from him. It was
nearly an hour before Pierre, eased off from the puzzle he was solving
with bits of paper and obliged Tybalt. He began as if they had been
speaking the moment before:
"They have said it is legend, but I know better. I have seen the records
of the Company, and it is all there. I was at Fort O'Glory once, and in a
box two hundred years old the factor and I found it. There were other
papers, and some of them had large red seals, and a name scrawled along
the end of the page."
Pierre shook his head, as if in contented musing. He was a born
story-teller. Tybalt was aching with interest, for he scented a thing of
note.
"How did any of those papers, signed with a scrawl, begin?" he asked.
"'To our dearly-beloved,' or something like that," answered Pierre.
"There were letters also. Two of them were full of harsh words, and these
were signed with the scrawl."
"What was that scrawl?" asked Tybalt.
Pierre stooped to the sand, and wrote two words with his finger. "Like
that," he answered.
Tybalt looked intently for an instant, and then drew a long breath.
"Charles Rex," he said, hardly above his breath.
Pierre gave him a suggestive sidelong glance. "That name was droll, eh?"
Tybalt's blood was tingling with the joy of discovery. "It is a great
name," he said shortly.
"The Slave was great--the Indians said so at the last."
"But that was not the name of the Slave?"
"Mais non. Who said so! Charles Rex--like that! was the man who wrote the
letters."
"To the Great Slave?"
Pierre made a gesture of impatience. "Very sure."
"Where are those letters now?"
"With the Governor of the Company." Tybalt cut the tobacco for his pipe
savagely. "You'd have liked one of those papers?" asked Pierre
provokingly.
"I'd give five hundred dollars for one," broke out Tybalt.
Pierre lifted his eyebrows. "T'sh, what's the good of five hundred
dollars up here? What would you do with a letter like that?"