The Trail of the Sword, Complete - Gilbert Parker
"Monsieur," said Gering, a little grandly, "you have come to me three
times; next time I will come to you."
"I trust that you will keep your word," answered Iberville, smiling.
That day Iberville, protesting helplessly, was ordered away to France on
a man-of-war, which had rocked in the harbour of Quebec for a month
awaiting his return. Even Frontenac himself could not help him, for the
order had come from the French minister.
CHAPTER XVII
THE GIFT OF A CAPTIVE
Fortune had not been kind to Iberville, but still he kept a stoical
cheerfulness. With the pride of a man who feels that he has impressed a
woman, and knowing the strength of his purpose, he believed that Jessica
should yet be his. Meanwhile matters should not lie still. In those days
men made love by proxy, and Iberville turned to De Casson and Perrot.
The night before he started for France they sat together in a little
house flanking the Chateau St. Louis. Iberville had been speaking.
"I know the strength of your feelings, Iberville," said De Casson, "but
is it wise, and is it right?" Iberville made an airy motion with his
hand. "My dear abbe, there is but one thing worth living for, and that is
to follow your convictions. See: I have known you since you took me from
my mother's last farewell. I have believed in you, cared for you, trusted
you; we have been good comrades. Come, now, tell me: what would you think
if my mind drifted! No, no, no! to stand by one's own heart is the gift
of an honest man--I am a sad rogue, abbe, as you know, but I swear I
would sooner let slip the friendship of King Louis himself than the hand
of a good comrade. Well, my sword is for my king. I must obey him, I must
leave my comrades behind, but I shall not forget, and they must not
forget." At this he got to his feet, came over, laid a hand on the abbe's
shoulder, and his voice softened: "Abbe, the woman shall be mine."
"If God wills so, Iberville." "He will, He will."
"Well," said Perrot, with a little laugh; "I think God will be good to a
Frenchman when an Englishman is his foe."
"But the girl is English--and a heretic," urged the abbe helplessly.
Perrot laughed again. "That will make Him sorry for her."
Meanwhile Iberville had turned to the table, and was now reading a
letter. A pleased look came on his face, and he nodded in satisfaction.
At last he folded it up with a smile and sealed it. "Well," he said, "the
English is not good, for I have seen my Shakespeare little this time
back, but it will do--it must do. In such things rhetoric is nothing. You
will take it, Perrot?" he said, holding up the letter.
Perrot reached out for it.
"And there is something more." Iberville drew from his finger a costly
ring. It had come from the hand of a Spanish noble, whose place he had
taken in Spain years before. He had prevented his men from despoiling the
castle, and had been bidden to take what he would, and had chosen only
this.
"Tell her," he said, "that it was the gift of a captive to me, and that
it is the gift of a captive to her. For, upon my soul, I am prisoner to
none other in God's world."
Perrot weighed the ring up and down in his hand. "Bien," he said,
"monsieur, it is a fine speech, but I do not understand. A prisoner, eh?
I remember when you were a prisoner with me upon the Ottawa. Only a
boy--only a boy, but, holy Mother, that was different! I will tell her
how you never gave up; how you went on the hunt after Grey Diver, the
Iroquois. Through the woods, silent--silent for days and days, Indians
all round us. Death in the brush, death in the tree-top, death from the
river-bank. I said to you, Give up; but you kept on. Then there were days
when there was no sleep--no rest--we were like ghosts. Sometimes we come
to a settler's cabin and see it all smoking; sometimes to a fort and find
only a heap of bones--and other things! But you would not give up; you
kept on. What for? That Indian chief killed your best friend. Well, that
was for hate; you keep on and on and on for hate--and you had your way
with Grey Diver; I heard your axe crash in his skull. All for hate! And
what will you do for love?--I will ask her what will you do for love. Ah,
you are a great man--but yes! I will tell her so."
"Tell her what you please, Perrot."
Iberville hummed an air as at some goodly prospect. Yet when he turned to
the others again there grew a quick mist in his eyes. It was not so much
the thought of the woman as of the men. There came to him with sudden
force how these two comrades had been ever ready to sacrifice themselves
for him, and he ready to accept the sacrifice. He was not ashamed of the
mist, but he wondered that the thing had come to him all at once. He
grasped the hands of both, shook them heartily, then dashed his fingers
across his eyes, and with the instinct of every imperfect man,--that
touch of the aboriginal in all of us, who must have a sign for an
emotion, he went to a cabinet and out came a bottle of wine.
An hour after, Perrot left him at the ship's side.
They were both cheerful. "Two years, Perrot; two years!" he said.
"Ah, mon grand capitaine!"
Iberville turned away, then came back again. "You will start at once?"
"At once; and the abbe shall write."
Upon the lofty bank of the St. Lawrence, at the Sault au Matelot, a tall
figure clad in a cassock stood and watched the river below. On the high
cliff of Point Levis lights were showing, and fires burning as far off as
the island of Orleans. And in that sweet curve of shore, from the St.
Charles to Beauport, thousands of stars seemed shining. Nearer still,
from the heights, there was the same strange scintillation; the great
promontory had a coronet of stars. In the lower town there was like
illumination, and out upon the river trailed long processions of light.
It was the feast of good Sainte Anne de Beaupre. All day long had there
been masses and processions on land. Hundreds of Jesuits, with thousands
of the populace, had filed behind the cross and the host. And now there
was a candle in every window. Indians, half-breeds, coureurs du bois,
native Canadians, seigneurs, and noblesse, were joining in the function.
But De Casson's eyes were not for these. He was watching the lights of a
ship that slowly made its way down the river among the canoes, and his
eyes never left it till it had passed beyond the island of Orleans and
was lost in the night.
"Mon cher!" he said, "mon enfant! She is not for him; she should not be.
As a priest it were my duty to see that he should not marry her. As a
man" he sighed--"as a man I would give my life for him."
He lifted his hand and made the sign of the cross towards that spot on
the horizon whither Iberville had gone.
"He will be a great man some day," he added to himself--"a great man.
There will be empires here, and when histories are written Pierre's shall
be a name beside Frontenac's and La Salle's."
All the human affection of the good abbe's life centred upon Iberville.
Giant in stature, so ascetic and refined was his mind, his life, that he
had the intuition of a woman and, what was more, little of the bigotry of
his brethren. As he turned from the heights, made his way along the cliff
and down Mountain Street, his thoughts were still upon the same subject.
He suddenly paused.
"He will marry the sword," he said, "and not the woman."
How far he was right we may judge if we enter the house of Governor
Nicholls at New York one month later.
CHAPTER XVIII
MAIDEN NO MORE
It was late mid-summer, and just such an evening as had seen the
attempted capture of Jessica Leveret years before. She sat at a window,
looking out upon the garden and the river. The room was at the top of the
house. It had been to her a kind of play-room when she had visited
Governor Nicholls years before. To every woman memory is a kind of
religion; and to Jessica as much as to any, perhaps more than to most,
for she had imagination. She half sat, half knelt, her elbow on her knee,
her soft cheek resting upon her firm, delicate hand. Her beauty was as
fresh and sweet as on the day we first saw her. More, something deep and
rich had entered into it. Her eyes had got that fine steadfastness which
only deep tenderness and pride can give a woman: she had lived. She was
smiling now, yet she was not merry; her brightness was the sunshine of a
nature touched with an Arcadian simplicity. Such an one could not be
wholly unhappy. Being made for others more than for herself, she had
something of the divine gift of self-forgetfulness.
As she sat there, her eyes ever watching the river as though for some one
she expected, there came from the garden beneath the sound of singing. It
was not loud, but deep and strong:
"As the wave to the shore, as the dew to the leaf,
As the breeze to the flower,
As the scent of a rose to the heart of a child, 343
As the rain to the dusty land--
My heart goeth out unto Thee--unto Thee!
The night is far spent and the day is at hand.
"As the song of a bird to the call of a star,
As the sun to the eye,
As the anvil of man to the hammers of God,
As the snow to the north
Is my word unto Thy word--to Thy word!
The night is far spent and the day is at hand."
It was Morris who was singing. With growth of years had come increase of
piety, and it was his custom once a week to gather about him such of the
servants as would for the reading of Scripture.
To Jessica the song had no religious significance. By the time it had
passed through the atmosphere of memory and meditation, it carried a
different meaning. Her forehead dropped forward in her fingers, and
remained so until the song ended. Then she sighed, smiled wistfully, and
shook her head.
"Poor fellow! poor--Iberville!" she said, almost beneath her breath.
The next morning she was to be married. George Gering had returned to
her, for the second time defeated by Iberville. He had proved himself a
brave man, and, what was much in her father's sight, he was to have his
share of Phips's booty. And what was still more, Gering had prevailed
upon Phips to allow Mr. Leveret's investment in the first expedition to
receive a dividend from the second. Therefore she was ready to fulfil her
promise. Yet had she misgivings? For, only a few days before, she had
sent for the old pastor at Boston, who had known her since she was a
child. She wished, she said, to be married by him and no other at
Governor Nicholls's house, rather than at her own home at Boston, where
there was none other of her name.
The old pastor had come that afternoon, and she had asked him to see her
that evening. Not long after Morris had done with singing there came a
tapping at her door. She answered and old Pastor Macklin entered, a
white-haired man of kindly yet stern countenance, by nature a gentleman,
by practice a bigot. He came forward and took both her hands as she rose.
"My dear young lady!" he said, and smiled kindly at her. After a word of
greeting she offered him a chair, and came again to the window.
Presently she looked up and said very simply: "I am going to be married.
You have known me ever since I was born: do you think I will make a good
wife?"
"With prayer and chastening of the spirit, my daughter," he said.
"But suppose that at the altar I remembered another man?"
"A sin, my child, for which should be due sorrow." The girl smiled sadly.
She felt poignantly how little he could help her.
"And if the man were a Catholic and a Frenchman?" she said.
"A papist and a Frenchman!" he cried, lifting up his hands. "My daughter,
you ever were too playful. You speak of things impossible. I pray you
listen." Jessica raised her hand as if to stop him and to speak herself,
but she let him go on. With the least encouragement she might have told
him all. She had had her moment of weakness, but now it was past. There
are times when every woman feels she must have a confidant, or her heart
will burst--have counsel or she will die. Such a time had come to
Jessica. But she now learned, as we all must learn, that we live our dark
hour alone.
She listened as in a dream to the kindly bigot. When he had finished, she
knelt and received his blessing. All the time she wore that strange,
quiet smile. Soon afterwards he left her.
She went again to the window. "A papist and a Frenchman--unpardonable
sin!" she said into the distance. "Jessica, what a sinner art thou!"
Presently there was a tap, the door opened, and George Gering entered.
She turned to receive him, but there was no great lighting of the face.
He came quickly to her, and ran his arm round her waist. A great kindness
looked out of her eyes. Somehow she felt herself superior to him--her
love was less and her nature deeper. He pressed her fingers to his lips.
"Of what were you thinking, Jessica?" he asked.
"Of what a sinner I am," she answered, with a sad kind of humour.
"What a villain must I be, then!" he responded. "Well, yes," she said
musingly; "I think you are something of a villain, George."
"Well, well, you shall cure me of all mine iniquities," he said. "There
will be a lifetime for it. Come, let us to the garden."
"Wait," she said. "I told you that I was a sinner, George; I want to tell
you how."
"Tell me nothing; let us both go and repent," he rejoined, laughing, and
he hurried her away. She had lost her opportunity.
Next morning she was married. The day was glorious. The town was
garlanded, and there was not an English merchant or a Dutch burgher but
wore his holiday dress. The ceremony ended, a traveller came among the
crowd. He asked a hurried question or two and then edged away. Soon he
made a stand under the trees, and, viewing the scene, nodded his head and
said: "The abbe was right."
It was Perrot. A few hours afterwards the crowd had gone and the
governor's garden was empty. Perrot still kept his watch under the tree,
though why he could hardly say--his errand was useless now. But he had
the gift of waiting. At last he saw a figure issue from a door and go
down into the garden. He remembered the secret gate. He made a detour,
reached it, and entered. Jessica was walking up and down in the pines. In
an hour or so she was to leave for England. Her husband had gone to the
ship to do some needful things, and she had stolen out for a moment's
quiet. When Perrot faced her, she gave a little cry and started back. But
presently she recovered, smiled at him, and said kindly: "You come
suddenly, monsieur."
"Yet have I travelled hard and long," he answered.
"Yes?"
"And I have a message for you."
"A message?" she said abstractedly, and turned a little pale.
"A message and a gift from Monsieur Iberville." He drew the letter and
the ring from his pocket and held them out, repeating Iberville's
message. There was a troubled look in her eyes and she was trembling a
little now, but she spoke clearly.
"Monsieur," she said, "you will tell Monsieur Iberville that I may not; I
am married."
"So, madame," he said. "But I still must give my message." When he had
done so he said: "Will you take the letter?" He held it out.
There was a moment's doubt and then she took it, but she did not speak.
"Shall I carry no message, madame?"
She hesitated. Then, at last: "Say that I wish him good fortune--with all
my heart."
"Good fortune--ah, madame!" he answered, in a meaning tone.
"Say that I pray God may bless him, and make him a friend of my country,"
she added in a low, almost broken voice, and she held out her hand to
him.
The gallant woodsman pressed it to his lips. "I am sorry, madame," he
replied, with an admiring look.
She shook her head sadly. "Adieu, monsieur!" she said steadily and very
kindly.
A moment after he was gone. She looked at the missive steadfastly for a
moment, then thrust it into the folds of her dress and, very pale, walked
quietly to the house, where, inside her own room, she lighted a candle.
She turned the letter over in her hand once or twice, and her fingers
hung at the seal. But all at once she raised it to her lips, and then
with a grave, firm look, held it in the flame and saw it pass in smoke.
It was the last effort for victory.
ETEXT EDITOR'S BOOKMARKS:
Aboriginal in all of us, who must have a sign for an emotion
Learned, as we all must learn, that we live our dark hour alone
TRAIL OF THE SWORD
By Gilbert Parker
EPOCH THE FOURTH
XIX. WHICH TELLS OF A BROTHER'S BLOOD CRYING FROM THE GROUND XX. A
TRAP IS SET XXI. AN UNTOWARD MESSENGER XXII. FROM TIGER'S CLAW TO
LION'S MOUTH XXIII. AT THE GATES OF MISFORTUNE XXIV. IN WHICH THE SWORD
IS SHEATHED
CHAPTER XIX
WHICH TELLS OF A BROTHER'S BLOOD CRYING FROM THE GROUND
Two men stood leaning against a great gun aloft on the heights of Quebec.
The air of an October morning fluttered the lace at their breasts and
lifted the long brown hair of the younger man from his shoulders. His
companion was tall, alert, bronzed, grey-headed, with an eagle eye and a
glance of authority. He laid his hand on the shoulder of the younger man
and said: "I am glad you have come, Iberville, for I need you, as I need
all your brave family--I could spare not one."
"You honour me, sir," was the reply; "and, believe me, there is none in
Quebec but thanks God that their governor is here before Phips rounds
Isle Orleans yonder."
"You did nobly while I was away there in Montreal waiting for the New
Yorkers to take it--if they could. They were a sorry rabble, for they
rushed on La Prairie, that meagre place,--massacred and turned tail."
"That's strange, sir, for they are brave men, stupid though they be. I
have fought them."
"Well, well, as that may be! We will give them chance for bravery. Our
forts are strong from the Sault au Matelot round to Champigny's palace,
the trenches and embankments are well ended, and if they give me but two
days more I will hold the place against twice their thirty-four sail and
twenty-five hundred men."
"For how long, your excellency?"
Count Frontenac nodded. "Spoken like a soldier. There's the vital point.
By the mass, just so long as food lasts! But here we are with near two
thousand men, and all the people from the villages, besides Callieres's
seven or eight hundred, should they arrive in time--and, pray God they
may, for there will be work to do. If they come at us in front here and
behind from the Saint Charles, shielding their men as they cross the
river, we shall have none too many; but we must hold it."
The governor drew himself up proudly. He had sniffed the air of battle
for over fifty years with all manner of enemies, and his heart was in the
thing. Never had there been in Quebec a more moving sight than when he
arrived from Montreal the evening before, and climbed Mountain Street on
his way to the chateau. Women and children pressed round him, blessing
him; priests, as he passed, lifted hands in benediction; men cheered and
cried for joy; in every house there was thanksgiving that the imperious
old veteran had come in time.
Prevost the town mayor, Champigny the Intendant, Sainte-Helene,
Maricourt, and Longueil, had worked with the skill of soldiers who knew
their duty, and it was incredible what had been done since the alarm had
come to Prevost that Phips had entered the St. Lawrence and was anchored
at Tadousac.
"And how came you to be here, Iberville?" queried the governor
pleasantly. "We scarce expected you."
"The promptings of the saints and the happy kindness of King Louis, who
will send my ship here after me. I boarded the first merchantman with its
nose to the sea, and landed here soon after you left for Montreal."
"So? Good! See you, see you, Iberville: what of the lady Puritan's
marriage with the fire-eating Englishman?"
The governor smiled as he spoke, not looking at Iberville. His glance was
upon the batteries in lower town. He had inquired carelessly, for he did
not think the question serious at this distance of time. Getting no
answer, he turned smartly upon Iberville, surprised, and he was struck by
the sudden hardness in the sun-browned face and the flashing eyes. Years
had deepened the power of face and form.
"Your excellency will remember," he answered, in a low, cold tone, "that
I once was counselled to marry the sword."
The governor laid his hand upon Iberville's shoulder. "Pardon me," he
said. "I was not wise or kind. But--I warrant the sword will be your best
wife in the end."
"I have a favour to ask, your excellency."
"You might ask many, my Iberville. If all gentlemen here, clerics and
laymen, asked as few as you, my life would be peaceful. Your services
have been great, one way and another. Ask, and I almost promise now.
"'Tis this. Six months ago you had a prisoner here, captured on the New
England border. After he was exchanged you found that he had sent a plan
of the fortifications to the Government of Massachusetts. He passed in
the name of George Escott. Do you remember?"
"Very well indeed."
"Suppose he were taken prisoner again?"
"I should try him."
"And shoot him, if guilty?"
"Or hang him."
"His name was not Escott. It was Gering--Captain George Gering."
The governor looked hard at Iberville for a moment, and a grim smile
played upon his lips. "H'm! How do you guess that?"
"From Perrot, who knows him well."
"Why did Perrot not tell me?"
"Perrot and Sainte-Helene had been up at Sault Sainte Marie. They did not
arrive until the day he was exchanged, nor did not know till then. There
was no grave reason for speaking, and they said nothing."
"And what imports this?"
"I have no doubt that Mr. Gering is with Sir William Phips below at
Tadousac. If he is taken let him be at my disposal."
The governor pursed his lips, then flashed a deep, inquiring glance at
his companion. "The new mistress turned against the old, Iberville!" he
said. "Gering is her husband, eh? Well, I will trust you: it shall be as
you wish--a matter for us two alone."
At that moment Sainte-Helene and Maricourt appeared and presently, in the
waning light, they all went down towards the convent of the Ursulines,
and made their way round the rock, past the three gates to the palace of
the Intendant, and so on to the St. Charles River.
Next morning word was brought that Phips was coming steadily up, and
would probably arrive that day. All was bustle in the town, and prayers
and work went on without ceasing. Late in the afternoon the watchers from
the rock of Quebec saw the ships of the New England fleet slowly rounding
the point of the Island of Orleans.
To the eyes of Sir William Phips and his men the great fortress, crowned
with walls, towers, and guns, rising three hundred feet above the water,
the white banner flaunting from the chateau and the citadel, the
batteries, the sentinels upon the walls--were suggestive of stern work.
Presently there drew away from Phips's fleet a boat carrying a subaltern
with a flag of truce, who was taken blindfold to the Chateau St. Louis.
Frontenac's final words to the youth were these: "Bid your master do his
best, and I will do mine."
Disguised as a river-man, Iberville himself, with others, rowed the
subaltern back almost to the side of the admiral's ship, for by the freak
of some peasants the boat which had brought him had been set adrift. As
they rowed from the ship back towards the shore, Iberville, looking up,
saw, standing on the deck, Phips and George Gering. He had come for this.
He stood up in his boat and took off his cap. His long clustering curls
fell loose on his shoulders, and he waved a hand with a nonchalant
courtesy. Gering sprang forward. "Iberville!" he cried, and drew his
pistol.
Iberville saw the motion, but did not stir. He called up, however, in a
clear, distinct voice: "Breaker of parole, keep your truce!"
"He is right," said Gering quietly; "quite right." Gering was now hot for
instant landing and attack. Had Phips acted upon his advice the record of
the next few days might have been reversed. But the disease of counsel,
deliberation, and prayer had entered into the soul of the sailor and
treasure-hunter, now Sir William Phips, governor of Massachusetts. He
delayed too long: the tide turned; there could be no landing that night.
Just after sundown there was a great noise, and the ringing of bells and
sound of singing came over the water to the idle fleet.
"What does it mean?" asked Phips of a French prisoner captured at
Tadousac.
"Ma foi! That you lose the game," was the reply. "Callieres, the governor
of Montreal, with his Canadians, and Nicholas Perrot with his coureurs du
bois have arrived. You have too much delay, monsieur."
In Quebec, when this contingent arrived, the people went wild. And Perrot
was never prouder than when, in Mountain Street, Iberville, after three
years' absence, threw his arms round him and kissed him on each cheek.
It was in the dark hour before daybreak that Iberville and Perrot met for
their first talk after the long separation. What had occurred on the day
of Jessica's marriage Perrot had, with the Abbe de Casson's help, written
to Iberville. But they had had no words together. Now, in a room of the
citadel which looked out on the darkness of the river and the deeper
gloom of the Levis shore, they sat and talked, a single candle burning,
their weapons laid on the table between them.