The Trail of the Sword, Complete - Gilbert Parker
The firs, where Iberville and Gering had just plucked out their swords,
were not far, and both men heard. Gering, who best knew the voice, said
hurriedly: "It is Jessica!"
Without a word Iberville leaped to the open, and came into it ahead of
Gering. They saw the kidnappers and ran. Iberville was the first to find
what Bucklaw was carrying. "Mother of God," he called, "they're taking
her off!"
"Help! help!" cried Gering, and they pushed on. The two ruffians were
running hard, but it had been an unequal race at the best, and Jessica
lay unconscious in Bucklaw's arms, a dead weight. Presently they plunged
into the bushes and disappeared. Iberville and Gering passed through the
bushes also, but could neither see nor hear the quarry. Gering was wild
with excitement and lost his presence of mind. Meanwhile Iberville went
beating for a clue. He guessed that he was dealing with good woodsmen,
and that the kidnappers knew some secret way out of the garden. It was
so. The Dutch governor had begun to build an old-fashioned wall with a
narrow gateway, so fitted as to seem part of it. Through this the two had
vanished.
Iberville was almost in despair. "Go back," he suddenly said to Gering,
"and rouse the house and the town. I will get on the trail again if I
can."
Gering started away. In this strange excitement their own foolish quarrel
was forgotten, and the stranger took on himself to command; he was, at
least, not inexperienced in adventure and the wiles of desperate men. All
at once he came upon the wall. He ran along it, and presently his fingers
felt the passage. An instant and he was outside and making for the shore,
in the sure knowledge that the ruffians would take to the water. He
thought of Bucklaw, and by some impossible instinct divined the presence
of his hand. Suddenly he saw something flash on the ground. He stooped
and picked it up. It was a shoe with a silver buckle. He thrilled to the
finger-tips as he thrust it in his bosom and pushed on. He was on the
trail now. In a few moments he came to the waterside. He looked to where
he had seen the Nell Gwynn in the morning, and there was never a light in
view. Then a twig snapped, and Bucklaw, the girl in his arms, came
bundling out of the trees upon the bank. He had sent Radisson on ahead to
warn his boat's crew.
He saw Iberville as soon as Iberville saw him. He knew that the town
would be roused by this time and the governor on fire for revenge. But
there was nothing for it but fight. He did not fear the result. Time was
life to him, and he swung the girl half behind him with his hook-hand as
Iberville came on, and, whipping out his hanger, caught the Frenchman's
thrust. Instantly he saw that his opposite was a swordsman, so he let the
girl slip to the ground, and suddenly closing with Iberville, lunged
desperately and expertly at him, straight for a mortal part. But the
Frenchman was too agile and adroit for him: he took the thrust in the
flesh of his ribs and riposted like lightning. The pirate staggered back,
but pulled himself together instantly, lunged, and took his man in the
flesh of his upper sword arm. Iberville was bleeding from the wound in
his side and slightly stiff from the slash of the night before, but every
fibre of his hurt body was on the defensive. Bucklaw knew it, and seemed
to debate if the game were worth the candle. The town was afoot, and he
had earned a halter for his pains. He was by no means certain that he
could kill this champion and carry off the girl. Moreover, he did not
want Iberville's life, for such devils have their likes and dislikes, and
he had fancied the chivalrous youngster from the first. But he doubted
only for an instant. What was such a lad's life compared with his
revenge? It was madness, as he knew, for a shot would guide the pursuit:
none the less, did he draw a pistol from his belt and fire. The bullet
grazed the lad's temple, carrying away a bit of his hair. Iberville
staggered forwards, so weak was he from loss of blood, and, with a deep
instinct of protection and preservation, fell at Jessica's feet. There
was a sound of footsteps and crackling of brush. Bucklaw stooped to pick
up his prey, but a man burst on him from the trees. He saw that the game
was up and he half raised his knife, but that was only the mad rage of
the instant. His revenge did not comprise so unheard-of a crime. He
thought he had killed Iberville: that was enough. He sprang away towards
the spot where his comrades awaited him. Escape was his sole ambition
now. The new-comer ran forwards, and saw the boy and girl lying as they
were dead. A swift glance at Iberville, and he slung his musket
shoulderwards and fired at the retreating figure. It was a chance shot,
for the light was bad and Bucklaw was already indistinct.
Now the man dropped on his knee and felt Iberville's heart. "Alive!" he
said. "Alive, thank the mother of God! Mon brave! It is ever the
same--the great father, the great son."
As he withdrew his hand it brushed against the slipper. He took it out,
glanced at it, and turned to the cloaked figure. He undid the cloak and
saw Jessica's pale face. He shook his head. "Always the same," he said,
"always the same: for a king, for a friend, for a woman! That is the Le
Moyne."
But he was busy as he spoke. With the native chivalry of the woodsman, he
cared first for the girl. Between her lips he thrust his drinking-horn
and held her head against his shoulder.
"My little ma'm'selle-ma'm'selle!" he said. "Wake up. It is nothing--you
are safe. Ah, the sweet lady! Come, let me see the colour of your eyes.
Wake up--it is nothing."
Presently the girl did open her eyes. He put the drinking-horn again to
her lips. She shuddered and took a sip, and then, invigorated, suddenly
drew away from him. "There, there," he said; "it is all right. Now for my
poor Iberville." He took Iberville's head to his knee and thrust the
drinking-horn between his teeth, as he had done with Jessica, calling him
in much the same fashion. Iberville came to with a start. For a moment he
stared blindly at his rescuer, then a glad intelligence flashed into his
eyes.
"Perrot! dear Nick Perrot!" he cried. "Oh, good--good," he added softly.
Then with sudden anxiety:
"Where is she? Where is she?"
"I am safe, monsieur," Jessica said gently; "but you--you are wounded."
She came over and dropped on her knees beside him.
"A little," he said; "only a little. You cared for her first?" he asked
of Perrot.
Perrot chuckled. "These Le Moynes!" he said: under his breath. Then
aloud: "The lady first, monsieur."
"So," answered Iberville. "And Bucklaw--the devil, Bucklaw?"
"If you mean the rogue who gave you these," said Perrot, touching the
wounds, which he had already begun to bind, "I think he got away--the
light was bad."
Jessica would have torn her frock for a bandage, but Perrot said in his
broken English: "No, pardon. Not so. The cloak la-bas."
She ran and brought it to him. As she did so Perrot glanced down at her
feet, and then, with a touch of humour, said: "Pardon, but you have lost
your slipper, ma'm'selle?"
He foresaw the little comedy, which he could enjoy even in such painful
circumstances.
"It must have dropped off," said Jessica, blushing. "But it does not
matter."
Iberville blushed too, but a smile also flitted across his lips. "If you
will but put your hand into my waistcoat here," he said to her, "you will
find it." Timidly she did as she was bid, drew forth the slipper, and put
it on.
"You see," said Iberville, still faint from loss of blood, "a Frenchman
can fight and hunt too--hunt the slipper."
Suddenly a look of pain crossed her face.
"Mr. Gering, you--you did not kill him?" she asked. "Oh no,
mademoiselle," said Iberville; "you stopped the game again."
Presently he told her what had happened, and how Gering was rousing the
town. Then he insisted upon getting on his feet, that they might make
their way to the governor's house. Stanchly he struggled on, his weight
upon Perrot, till presently he leaned a hand also on Jessica's
shoulder-she had insisted. On the way, Perrot told how it was he chanced
to be there. A band of coureurs du bois, bound for Quebec, had come upon
old Le Moyne and himself in the woods. Le Moyne had gone on with these
men, while Perrot pushed on to New York, arriving at the very moment of
the kidnapping. He heard the cry and made towards it. He had met Gering,
and the rest they knew.
Certain things did not happen. The governor of New York did not at once
engage in an expedition to the Spaniards' country. A brave pursuit was
made, but Bucklaw went uncaptured. Iberville and Gering did not make a
third attempt to fight; Perrot prevented that. Iberville left, however,
with a knowledge of three things: that he was the first Frenchman from
Quebec who had been, or was likely to be, popular in New York; that
Jessica Leveret had shown a tender gratitude towards him--naive,
candid--which set him dreaming gaily of the future; that Gering and he,
in spite of outward courtesy, were still enemies; for Gering could not
forget that, in the rescue of Jessica, Iberville had done the work while
he merely played the crier.
"We shall meet again, monsieur," said Iberville at last; "at least, I
hope so."
"I shall be glad," answered Gering mechanically. "But 'tis like I shall
come to you before you come to me," added Iberville, with meaning.
Jessica was standing not far away, and Gering did not instantly reply. In
the pause, Iberville said: "Au revoir! A la bonne heure!" and walked
away. Presently he turned with a little ironical laugh and waved his hand
at Gering; and laugh and gesture rankled in Gering for many a day.
ETEXT EDITOR'S BOOKMARKS:
Love, too, is a game, and needs playing
To die without whining
THE TRAIL OF THE SWORD
By Gilbert Parker
EPOCH THE SECOND
VII. FRIENDS IN COUNCIL VIII. AS SEEN THROUGH A GLASS, DARKLY IX.
TO THE PORCH OF THE WORLD X. QUI VIVE! XI. WITH THE STRANGE PEOPLE
XII. OUT OF THE NET
CHAPTER VII
FRIENDS IN COUNCIL
Montreal and Quebec, dear to the fortunes of such men as Iberville, were
as cheerful in the still iron winter as any city under any more cordial
sky then or now: men loved, hated, made and broke bargains, lied to
women, kept a foolish honour with each other, and did deeds of valour for
a song, as ever they did from the beginning of the world. Through the
stern soul of Nature ran the temperament of men who had hearts of summer;
and if, on a certain notable day in Iberville's life, one could have
looked through the window of a low stone house in Notre Dame Street,
Montreal, one could have seen a priest joyously playing a violin; though
even in Europe, Maggini and Stradivarius were but little known, and the
instrument itself was often called an invention of the devil.
The room was not ornamented, save by a crucifix, a pleasant
pencil-drawing of Bishop Laval, a gun, a pair of snow-shoes, a sword, and
a little shrine in one corner, wherein were relics of a saint. Of
necessaries even there were few. They were unremarkable, save in the case
of two tall silver candlesticks, which, with their candles at an angle
from the musician, gave his face strange lights and shadows.
The priest was powerfully made; so powerful indeed, so tall was he, that
when, in one of the changes of the music, a kind of exaltation filled
him, and he came to his feet, his head almost touched the ceiling. His
shoulders were broad and strong, and though his limbs were hid by his
cassock, his arms showed almost huge, and the violin lay tucked under his
chin like a mere toy. In the eye was a penetrating but abstracted look,
and the countenance had the gravity of a priest lighted by a cheerful
soul within. It had been said of Dollier de Casson that once, attacked by
two renegade Frenchmen, he had broken the leg of one and the back of the
other, and had then picked them up and carried them for miles to shelter
and nursing. And it was also declared by the romantic that the man with
the broken back recovered, while he with the shattered leg, recovering
also, found that his foot, pointing backwards, "made a fool of his nose."
The Abbe de Casson's life had one affection, which had taken the place of
others, now almost lost in the distance of youth, absence, and
indifference. For France lay far from Montreal, and the priest-musician
was infinitely farther off: the miles which the Church measures between
the priest and his lay boyhood are not easily reckoned. But such as
Dollier de Casson must have a field for affection to enrich. You cannot
drive the sap of the tree in upon itself. It must come out or the tree
must die-burst with the very misery of its richness.
This night he was crowding into the music four years of events: of
memory, hope, pride, patience, and affection. He was waiting for some one
whom he had not seen for these four years. Time passed. More and more did
the broad sonorous notes fill the room. At length they ceased, and with a
sigh he pressed the violin once, twice, thrice to his lips.
"My good Stradivarius," he said, "my peerless one!" Once again he kissed
it, and then, drawing his hand across his eyes, he slowly wrapped the
violin in a velvet cloth, put it away in an iron box, and locked it up.
But presently he changed his mind, took it out again, and put it on the
table, shaking his head musingly.
"He will wish to see it, maybe to hear it," he said half aloud.
Then he turned and went into another room. Here there was a prie-dieu in
a corner, and above it a crucifix. He knelt and was soon absorbed.
For a time there was silence. At last there was a crunching of moccasined
feet upon the crisp snow, then a slight tap at the outer door, and
immediately it was opened. A stalwart young man stepped inside. He looked
round, pleased, astonished, and glanced at the violin, then meaningly
towards the nearly closed door of the other room. After which he pulled
off his gloves, threw his cap down, and with a significant toss of the
head, picked up the violin.
He was a strong, handsome man of about twenty-two, with a face at once
open and inscrutable: the mouth with a trick of smiling, the eyes
fearless, convincing, but having at the same time a look behind this--an
alert, profound speculation, which gave his face singular force. He was
not so tall as the priest in the next room, but still he was very tall,
and every movement had a lithe, supple strength. His body was so firm
that, as he bent or turned, it seemed as of soft flexible metal.
Despite his fine manliness, he looked very boylike as he picked up the
violin, and with a silent eager laugh put it under his chin, nodding
gaily, as he did so, towards the other room. He bent his cheek to the
instrument--almost as brown as the wood itself--and made a pass or two in
the air with the bow, as if to recall a former touch and tune. A
satisfied look shot up in his face, and then with an almost impossible
softness he drew the bow across the strings, getting a distant delicate
note, which seemed to float and tenderly multiply upon itself--a
variation, indeed, of the tune which De Casson had played. A rapt look
came into his eyes. And all that look behind the general look of his
face--the look which has to do with a man's past or future--deepened and
spread, till you saw, for once in a way, a strong soldier turned artist,
yet only what was masculine and strong. The music deepened also, and, as
the priest opened the door, swept against him like a wind so warm that a
moisture came to his eyes. "Iberville!" he said, in a glad voice.
"Pierre!"
The violin was down on the instant. "My dear abbe!" he cried. And then
the two embraced.
"How do you like my entrance?" said the young man. "But I had to provide
my own music!" He laughed, and ran his hands affectionately down the arms
of the priest.
"I had been playing the same old chansonette--"
"With your original variations?"
"With my poor variations, just before you came in; and that done--"
"Yes, yes, abbe, I know the rest: prayers for the safe return of the
sailor, who for four years or nearly has been learning war in King
Louis's ships, and forgetting the good old way of fighting by land, at
which he once served his prentice time--with your blessing, my old tutor,
my good fighting abbe! Do you remember when we stopped those Dutchmen on
the Richelieu, and you--"
The priest interrupted with a laugh. "But, my dear Iberville--"
"It was 'Pierre' a minute gone; 'twill be 'Monsieur Pierre le Moyne of
Iberville' next," the other said in mock reproach, as he went to the
fire.
"No, no; I merely--"
"I understand. Pardon the wild youth who plagues his old friend and
teacher, as he did long ago--so much has happened since."
His face became grave and a look of trouble came. Presently the priest
said: "I never had a pupil whose teasing was so pleasant, poor humourist
that I am. But now, Pierre, tell me all, while I lay out what the pantry
holds."
The gay look came back into Iberville's face. "Ahem," he said--which is
the way to begin a wonderful story: "Once upon a time a young man, longing
to fight for his king by land alone, and with special fighting of his own
to do hard by"--(here De Casson looked at him keenly and a singular light
came into his eyes)--"was wheedled away upon the king's ships to France,
and so
'Left the song of the spinning-wheel,
The hawk and the lady fair,
And sailed away--'"
"But the song is old and so is the story, abbe; so here's the brief note
of it. After years of play and work,--play in France and stout work in
the Spaniards' country,--he was shipped away to
'Those battle heights,
Quebec heights, our own heights,
The citadel our golden lily bears,
And Frontenac--'
"But I babble again. And at Quebec he finds the old song changed. The
heights and the lilies are there, but Frontenac, the great, brave
Frontenac, is gone: confusion lives where only conquest and honest
quarrelling were--"
"Frontenac will return--there is no other way!" interposed De Casson.
"Perhaps. And the young man looked round and lo! old faces and places had
changed. Children had grown into women, with children at their breasts;
young wives had become matronly; and the middle-aged were slaving
servants and apothecaries to make them young again. And the young man
turned from the world he used to know, and said: 'There are but three
things in the world worth doing--loving, roaming, and fighting.'
Therefore, after one day, he turned from the poor little Court-game at
Quebec, travelled to Montreal, spent a few hours with his father and his
brothers, Bienville, Longueil, Maricourt, and Sainte-Helene, and then,
having sent word to his dearest friend, came to see him, and found
him--his voice got softer--the same as of old: ready with music and wine
and aves for the prodigal."
He paused. The priest had placed meat and wine on the table, and now he
came and put his hand on Iberville's shoulder. "Pierre," he said, "I
welcome you as one brother might another, the elder foolishly fond." Then
he added: "I was glad you remembered our music."
"My dear De Casson, as if I could forget! I have yet the Maggini you gave
me. It was of the things for remembering. If we can't be loyal to our
first loves, why to anything?"
"Even so, Pierre; but few at your age arrive at that. Most people learn
it when they have bartered away every dream. It is enough to have a few
honest emotions--very few--and stand by them till all be done."
"Even hating?" Iberville's eyes were eager.
"There is such a thing as a noble hate."
"How every inch of you is man!" answered the other, clasping the priest's
arms. Then he added: "Abbe, you know what I long to hear. You have been
to New York twice; you were there within these three months--"
"And was asked to leave within these three months--banished, as it were."
"I know. You said in your letter that you had news. You were kind to
go--"
"Perrot went too."
"My faithful Perrot! I was about to ask of him. I had a birch-bark letter
from him, and he said he would come--Ah, here he is!"
He listened. There was a man's voice singing near by. They could even
hear the words:
"'O the young seigneur! O the young seigneur!
A hundred bucks in a day he slew;
And the lady gave him a ribbon to wear,
And a shred of gold from her golden hair
O the way of a maid was the way he knew;
O the young seigneur! O the young seigneur!'"
"Shall we speak freely before him?" said the priest. "As freely as you
will. Perrot is true. He was with me, too, at the beginning."
At that moment there came a knock, and in an instant the coureur du bois
had caught the hands of the young man, and was laughing up in his face.
"By the good Sainte Anne, but you make Nick Perrot a dwarf, dear
monsieur!"
"Well, well, little man, I'll wager neither the great abbe here nor
myself could bring you lower than you stand, for all that. Comrade, 'tis
kind of you to come so prompt."
"What is there so good as the face of an old friend!" said Perrot, with a
little laugh. "You will drink with a new, and eat with a coming friend,
and quarrel with either; but 'tis only the old friend that knows the old
trail, and there's nothing to a man like the way he has come in the
world."
"The trail of the good comrade," said the priest softly.
"Ah!" responded Perrot, "I remember, abbe, when we were at the Portneuf
you made some verses of that--eh! eh! but they were good!"
"No fitter time," said Iberville; "come, abbe, the verses!"
"No, no; another day," answered the priest.
It was an interesting scene. Perrot, short, broad, swarthy, dressed in
rude buckskin gaudily ornamented, bandoleer and belt garnished with
silver,--a recent gift of some grateful merchant, standing between the
powerful black-robed priest and this gallant sailor-soldier, richly
dressed in fine skins and furs, with long waving hair, more like a Viking
than a man of fashion, and carrying a courtly and yet sportive look, as
though he could laugh at the miseries of the sinful world. Three strange
comrades were these, who knew each other so far as one man can know
another, yet each knowing from a different stand-point. Perrot knew
certain traits of Iberville of which De Casson was ignorant, and the abbe
knew many depths which Perrot never even vaguely plumbed. And yet all
could meet and be free in speech, as though each read the other
thoroughly.
"Let us begin," said Iberville. "I want news of New York."
"Let us eat as we talk," urged the abbe.
They all sat and were soon eating and drinking with great relish.
Presently the abbe began:
"Of my first journey you know by the letter I sent you: how I found that
Mademoiselle Leveret was gone to England with her father. That was a year
after you left, now about three years gone. Monsieur Gering entered the
navy of the English king, and went to England also."
Iberville nodded. "Yes, yes, in the English navy I know very well of
that."
The abbe looked up surprised. "From my letter?"
"I saw him once in the Spaniards' country," said Iberville, "when we
swore to love each other less and less."
"What was the trouble?" asked the priest.
"Pirates' booty, which he, with a large force, seized as a few of my men
were carrying it to the coast. With his own hand he cut down my servant,
who had been with me since from the first. Afterwards in a parley I saw
him, and we exchanged--compliments. The sordid gentleman thought I was
fretting about the booty. Good God, what are some thousand pistoles to
the blood of one honest friend!"
"And in your mind another leaven worked," ventured the priest.
"Another leaven, as you say," responded Iberville. "So, for your story,
abbe."
"Of the first journey there is nothing more to tell, save that the
English governor said you were as brave a gentleman as ever played
ambassador--which was, you remember, much in Count Frontenac's vein."
Iberville nodded and smiled. "Frontenac railed at my impertinence also."
"But gave you a sword when you told him the news of Radisson,"
interjected Perrot. "And by and by I've things to say of him."
The abbe continued: "For my second visit, but a few months ago. We
priests have gone much among the Iroquois, even in the English country,
and, as I promised you, I went to New York. There I was summoned to the
governor. He commanded me to go back to Quebec. I was about to ask him of
Mademoiselle when there came a tap at the door. The governor looked at me
a little sharply. 'You are,' said he, 'a friend of Monsieur Iberville.
You shall know one who keeps him in remembrance.' Then he let the lady
enter. She had heard that I was there, having seen Perrot first."
Here Perrot, with a chuckle, broke in: "I chanced that way, and I had a
wish to see what was for seeing; for here was our good abbe alone among
the wolves, and there were Radisson and the immortal Bucklaw, of whom
there was news."
De Casson still continued: "When I was presented she took my hand and
said: 'Monsieur l'Abbe, I am glad to meet a friend--an old friend--of
Monsieur Iberville. I hear that he has been in France and elsewhere.'"