The Trail of the Sword, Complete - Gilbert Parker
Here the abbe paused, smiling as if in retrospect, and kept looking into
the fire and turning about in his hand his cassock-cord.
Iberville had sat very still, his face ruled to quietness; only his eyes
showing the great interest he felt. He waited, and presently said: "Yes,
and then?"
The abbe withdrew his eyes from the fire and turned them upon Iberville.
"And then," he said, "the governor left the room. When he had gone she
came to me, and, laying her hand upon my arm, said: 'Monsieur, I know you
are to be trusted. You are the friend of a brave man.'"
The abbe paused, and smiled over at Iberville. "You see," he said, "her
trust was in your friend, not in my office. Well, presently she added: 'I
know that Monsieur Iberville and Mr. Gering, for a foolish quarrel of
years ago, still are cherished foes. I wish your help to make them both
happier; for no man can be happy and hate.' And I gave my word to do so."
Here Perrot chuckled to himself and interjected softly: "Mon Dieu! she
could make a man say anything at all. I would have sworn to her that
while I lived I never should fight. Eh, that's so!"
"Allons!" said Iberville impatiently, yet grasping the arm of the
woodsman kindly.
The abbe once more went on: "When she had ended questioning I said to
her: 'And what message shall I give from you?' 'Tell him,' she answered,
'by the right of lifelong debt I ask for peace.' 'Is that all?' said I.
'Tell him,' she added, 'I hope we may meet again.' 'For whose sake,' said
I, 'do you ask for peace?' 'I am a woman,' she answered, 'I am
selfish--for my own sake.'"
Again the priest paused, and again Iberville urged him.
"I asked if she had no token. There was a flame in her eye, and she
begged me to excuse her. When she came back she handed me a little
packet. 'Give it to Monsieur Iberville,' she said, 'for it is his. He
lent it to me years ago. No doubt he has forgotten.'"
At that the priest drew from his cassock a tiny packet, and Iberville,
taking, opened it. It held a silver buckle tied by a velvet ribbon. A
flush crept slowly up Iberville's face from his chin to his hair, then he
sighed, and presently, out of all reason, laughed.
"Indeed, yes; it is mine," he said. "I very well remember when I found
it."
Here Perrot spoke. "I very well remember, monsieur, when she took it from
your doublet; but it was on a slipper then."
Iberville did not answer, but held the buckle, rubbing it on his sleeve
as though to brighten it. "So much for the lady," he said at last; "what
more?"
"I learned," answered the abbe, "that Monsieur Gering was in Boston, and
that he was to go to Fort Albany at Hudson's Bay, where, on our
territory, the English have set forts."
Here Perrot spoke. "Do you know, monsieur, who are the poachers? No? Eh?
No? Well, it is that Radisson."
Iberville turned sharply upon Perrot. "Are you sure of that?" he said.
"Are you sure, Nick?"
"As sure as I've a head. And I will tell you more: Radisson was with
Bucklaw at the kidnapping. I had the pleasure to kill a fellow of
Bucklaw, and he told me that before he died. He also told how Bucklaw
went with Radisson to the Spaniards' country treasure-hunting. Ah! there
are many fools in the world. They did not get the treasure. They
quarreled, and Radisson went to the far north, Bucklaw to the far south.
The treasure is where it was. Eh bien, such is the way of asses."
Iberville was about to speak.
"But wait," said Perrot, with a slow, tantalising smile; "it is not wise
to hurry. I have a mind to know; so while I am at New York I go to
Boston. It makes a man's mind great to travel. I have been east to
Boston; I have been west beyond the Ottawa and the Michilimackinac, out
to the Mississippi. Yes. Well, what did I find in Boston? Peste! I found
that they were all like men in purgatory--sober and grave. Truly. And so
dull! Never a saint-day, never a feast, never a grand council when the
wine, the rum, flow so free, and you shall eat till you choke. Nothing.
Everything is stupid; they do not smile. And so the Indians make war!
Well, I have found this. There is a great man from the Kennebec called
William Phips. He has traded in the Indies. Once while he was there he
heard of that treasure. Ha! ha! There have been so many fools on that
trail. The governor of New York was a fool when Bucklaw played his game;
he would have been a greater if he had gone with Bucklaw."
Here Iberville would have spoken, but Perrot waved his hand. "De grace, a
minute only. Monsieur Gering, the brave English lieutenant, is at
Hudson's Bay, and next summer he will go with the great William
Phips--Tonnerre, what a name--William Phips! Like a pot of herring! He
will go with him after the same old treasure. Boston is a big place, but
I hear these things."
Usually a man of few words, Perrot had bursts of eloquence, and this was
one of them. But having made his speech, he settled back to his tobacco
and into the orator's earned repose.
Iberville looked up from the fire and said: "Perrot, you saw her in New
York. What speech was there between you?"
Perrot's eyes twinkled. "There was not much said.
"I put myself in her way. When she saw me her cheek came like a
peach-blossom. 'A very good morning, ma'm'selle,' said I, in English. She
smiled and said the same. 'And your master, where is he?' she asked with
a fine smile. 'My friend Monsieur Iberville?' I said; 'ah! he will be in
Quebec soon.' Then I told her of the abbe, and she took from a chain a
little medallion and gave it me in memory of the time we saved her. And
before I could say Thank you, she had gone--Well, that is all--except
this."
He drew from his breast a chain of silver, from which hung the gold
medallion, and shook his head at it with good-humour. But presently a
hard look came on his face, and he was changed from the cheerful woodsman
into the chief of bushrangers. Iberville read the look, and presently
said:
"Perrot, men have fought for less than gold from a woman's chain and a
buckle from her shoe."
"I have fought from Trois Pistoles to Michilimackinac for the toss of a
louis-d'or."
"As you say. Well, what think you--"
He paused, rose, walked up and down the room, caught his moustache
between his teeth once or twice, and seemed buried in thought. Once or
twice he was about to speak, but changed his mind. He was calculating
many things: planning, counting chances, marshalling his resources.
Presently he glanced round the room. His eyes fell on a map. That was it.
It was a mere outline, but enough. Putting his finger on it, he sent it
up, up, up, till it settled on the shores of Hudson's Bay. Again he ran
the finger from the St. Lawrence up the coast and through Hudson's
Straits, but shook his head in negation. Then he stood, looked at the map
steadily, and presently, still absorbed, turned to the table. He saw the
violin, picked it up, and handed it to De Casson:
"Something with a smack of war," he said. "And a woman for me," added
Perrot.
The abbe shook his head musingly at Perrot, took the violin, and gathered
it to his chin. At first he played as if in wait of something that eluded
him. But all at once he floated into a powerful melody, as a stream
creeps softly through a weir, and after many wanderings broadens suddenly
into a great stream. He had found his theme. Its effect was striking.
Through Iberville's mind there ran a hundred incidents of his life, one
chasing upon the other without sequence--phantasmagoria out of the
scene--house of memory:
The light upon the arms of De Tracy's soldiers when they marched up
Mountain Street many years before--The frozen figure of a man standing
upright in the plains--A procession of canoes winding down past Two
Mountains, the wild chant of the Indians joining with the romantic songs
of the voyageurs--A girl flashing upon the drawn swords of two lads--King
Louis giving his hand to one of these lads to kiss--A lady of the Court
for whom he might easily have torn his soul to rags, but for a fair-faced
English girl, ever like a delicate medallion in his eye--A fight with the
English in the Spaniards' country--His father blessing him as he went
forth to France--A dark figure taking a hundred shapes, and yet always
meaning the same as when he--Iberville--said over the governor's table in
New York, "Foolish boy!"--A vast stretch of lonely forest, in the white
coverlet of winter, through which sounded now and then the boom-boom of a
bursting tree--A few score men upon a desolate northern track, silent,
desperate, courageous; a forlorn hope on the edge of the Arctic circle,
with the joy of conquest in their bones, and at their thighs the swords
of men.
These are a few of the pictures, but the last of them had not to do with
the past: a dream grown into a fact, shaped by the music, become at once
an emotion and a purpose.
Iberville had now driven home the first tent-peg of a wonderful
adventure. Under the spell of that music his body seemed to grow larger.
He fingered his sword, and presently caught Perrot by the shoulder and
said "We will do it, Perrot."
Perrot got to his feet. He understood. He nodded and seized Iberville's
hand. "Bravo! There was nothing else to do," he replied.
De Casson lowered his violin. "What do you intend?" he asked gravely.
Iberville took his great hand and pressed it. "To do what you will
commend, abbe: at Hudson's Bay to win back forts the English have taken,
and get those they have built."
"You have another purpose," added De Casson softly.
"Abbe, that is between me and my conscience. I go for my king and country
against our foes."
"Who will go with you? You will lead?"
"Not I to lead--that involves me." Iberville's face darkened. "I wish
more freedom, but still to lead in fact."
"But who will lead? And who will go?"
"De Troyes, perhaps, to lead. To go, my brothers Sainte-Helene and
Maricourt, Perrot and a stout company of his men; and then I fear not
treble as many English."
The priest did not seem satisfied. Presently Iberville, with a winning
smile, ran an arm over his shoulder and added: "We cannot go without you,
Dollier."
The priest's face cleared, and a moment afterwards the three comrades
shook hands together.
CHAPTER VIII
AS SEEN THROUGH A GLASS, DARKLY
When King Louis and King James called for peace, they could not know that
it was as little possible to their two colonies as between rival
buccaneers. New France was full of bold spirits who loved conquest for
conquest's sake. Besides, in this case there was a force at work,
generally unknown, but as powerful as the convincing influence of an
army. Behind the worst and the best acts of Charles II was a woman.
Behind the glories and follies of Louis XIV was also a woman. Behind some
of the most striking incidents in the history of New France, New England,
and New York, was a woman.
We saw her when she was but a child--the centre of singular events. Years
had passed. Not one of those events had gone for nothing; each was
bearing fruit after its kind.
She is sitting alone in a room of a large unhandsome house, facing on
Boston harbour. It is evening. The room itself is of dark wood, and
evening has thrown it into gloom. Yet somehow the girl's face has a light
of its own. She is turned fair towards the window, and is looking out to
sea. A mist is rising from the water, and the shore is growing grey and
heavy as the light in the west recedes and night creeps in from the
ocean. She watches the waves and the mist till all is mist without; a
scene which she had watched, how often she could not count. The night
closes in entirely upon her, but she does not move. At last the door of
the room opens and some one enters and closes it again. "My daughter!"
says an anxious voice. "Are you here, Jessica?"
"I am here, father," is the reply. "Shall we have lights?"
"As you will."
Even as they speak a servant enters, and lighted candles are put upon the
table. They are alone again. Both are pale. The girl stands very still,
and so quiet is her face, one could never guess that she is passing,
through the tragic moment of her life.
"What is your answer, Jessica?" he asks. "I will marry him when he comes
back."
"Thank God!" is the old man's acknowledgment. "You have saved our
fortunes."
The girl sighs, and then, with a little touch of that demure irony which
we had seen in her years before, says: "I trust we have not lost our
honour."
"Why, you love him, do you not? There is no one you care for more than
George Gering?"
"I suppose not," is her reply, but the tone is enigmatical.
While this scene is on, another appears in Cheapside, London. A man of
bold and vigorous bearing comes from the office of a well-known
solicitor. That very morning he had had an interview with the King, and
had been reminded with more exactness than kindness that he had cost King
Charles a ship, scores of men, and thousands of pounds, in a fruitless
search for buried treasure in Hispaniola. When he had urged his case upon
the basis of fresh information, he was drily told that the security was
too scant, even for a king. He had then pleaded his case to the Duke of
Albemarle and other distinguished gentlemen. They were seemingly
convinced, but withheld their answer till the following morning.
But William Phips, stubborn adventurer, destined to receive all sorts of
honours in his time, has no intention of quitting London till he has his
way; and this is his thought as he steps into Cheapside, having already
made preparations upon the chance of success. He has gone so far as to
purchase a ship, called the Bridgwater Merchant from an alderman in
London, though he has not a hundred guineas at his disposal. As he stands
debating, a hand touches his arm and a voice says in his ear: "You were
within a mile of it with the Atgier Rose, two years ago."
The great adventurer turns. "The devil I was! And who are you?"
Satanic humour plays in the stranger's eyes as he answers: "I am Edward
Bucklaw, pirate and keeper of the treasure-house in the La Planta River."
"Blood of Judas," Phips says, "how dare you speak to me? I'll have you in
yon prison for an unhung rascal!"
"Ah! you are a great man," is the unmoved reply. "I knew you'd feel that
way. But if you'll listen for five minutes, down here at the
Bull-and-Daisy, there shall be peace between us."
An hour later, Phips, following Bucklaw's instructions, is tracing on a
map the true location of the lost galleon's treasure.
"Then," says Bucklaw, "we are comrades?"
"We are adventurers."
Another scene. In a northern inland sea two men are standing on the deck
of a ship: the one stalwart, clear-eyed, with a touch of strong reserve
in face and manner; the other of middle height, with sinister look. The
former is looking out silently upon the great locked hummocks of ice
surrounding the vessel. It is the early morning. The sun is shining with
that hard brightness only seen in the Arctic world--keen as silver, cold
as steel. It plays upon the hummocks, and they send out shafts of light
at fantastic angles, and a thin blue line runs between the almost
unbearable general radiance and the sea of ice stretching indefinitely
away. But to the west is a shore, and on it stands a fort and a few
detached houses. Upon the walls of the fort are some guns, and the
British flag is flying above. Beyond these again are the plains of the
north--the home of the elk, musk-ox, silver fox, the white bear and the
lonely races of the Pole. Here and there, in the south-west, an island of
pines breaks the monotony, but to the north there is only the white
silence, the terrible and yet beautiful trail of the Arctic.
The smaller man stands swinging his arms for warmth; the smack of the
leather in the clear air like the report of a gun. Presently, stopping
his exercise, he says:
"Well, monsieur, what do you say?"
Slowly the young man withdraws his eyes from the scene and turns.
"Radisson," he says, "this is much the same story as Bucklaw told
Governor Nicholls. How come you to know of it?"
"You remember, I was proclaimed four years ago? Well, afterwards I fell
in with Bucklaw. I sailed with him to the Spaniards' country, and we
might have got the treasure, but we quarreled; there was a fight, and
I--well, we end. Bucklaw was captured by the French and was carried to
France. He was a fool to look for the treasure with a poor ship and a
worse crew. He was for getting William Phips, a man of Boston, to work
with him, for Phips had got something of the secret from an old sailor,
but when he would have got him, Phips was on his way with a ship of King
Charles. I will tell you something more.' Mademoiselle Leveret's--"
"What do you know of Mademoiselle Leveret?"
"A little. Mademoiselle's father lost much money in Phips's expedition."
"How know you that?"
"I have ears. You have promised to go with Phips. Isn't that so?"
"What then?"
"I will go with you."
"Booty?"
"No, revenge."
"On whom?"
"The man you hate--Iberville."
Gering's face darkens. "We are not likely to meet."
"Pardon! very likely. Six months ago he was coming back from France. He
will find you. I know the race."
A sneer is on Gering's face. "Freebooters, outlaws like yourself!"
"Pardon! gentlemen, monsieur; noble outlaws. What is it that once or
twice they have quarreled with the governor, and because they would not
yield have been proclaimed? Nothing. Proclaimed yesterday, today at
Court. No, no. I hate Iberville, but he is a great man."
In the veins of the renegade is still latent the pride of race. He is a
villain but he knows the height from which he fell. "He will find you,
monsieur," he repeats. "When Le Moyne is the hunter he never will kennel
till the end. Besides, there is the lady!"
"Silence!"
Radisson knows that he has said too much. His manner changes. "You will
let me go with you?" The Englishman remembers that this scoundrel was
with Bucklaw, although he does not know that Radisson was one of the
abductors.
"Never!" he says, and turns upon his heel.
A moment after and the two have disappeared from the lonely pageant of
ice and sun. Man has disappeared, but his works--houses and ships and
walls and snow-topped cannon--lie there in the hard grasp of the North,
while the White Weaver, at the summit of the world, is shuttling these
lives into the woof of battle, murder, and sudden death.
On the shore of the La Planta River a man lies looking into the sunset.
So sweet, so beautiful is the landscape, the deep foliage, the scent of
flowers, the flutter of bright-winged birds, the fern-grown walls of a
ruined town, the wallowing eloquence of the river, the sonorous din of
the locust, that none could think this a couch of death. A Spanish priest
is making ready for that last long voyage, when the soul of man sloughs
the dross of earth. Beside him kneels another priest--a Frenchman of the
same order.
The dying man feebly takes from his breast a packet and hands it to his
friend.
"It is as I have said," he whispers. "Others may guess, but I know. I
know--and another. The rest are all dead. There were six of us, and all
were killed save myself. We were poisoned by a Spaniard. He thought he
had killed all, but I lived. He also was killed. His murderer's name was
Bucklaw--an English pirate. He has the secret. Once he came with a ship
to find, but there was trouble and he did not go on. An Englishman also
came with the king's ship, but he did not find. But I know that the man
Bucklaw will come again. It should not be. Listen: A year ago, and
something more, I was travelling to the coast. From there I was to sail
for Spain. I had lost the chart of the river then. I was taken ill and I
should have died, but a young French officer stayed his men beside me and
cared for me, and had me carried to the coast, where I recovered. I did
not go to Spain, and I found the chart of the river again."
There is a pause, in which the deep breathing of the dying man mingles
with the low wash of the river, and presently he speaks again. "I vowed
then that he should know. As God is our Father, swear that you will give
this packet to himself only."
The priest, in reply, lifts the crucifix from the dying man's breast and
puts his lips to it. The world seems not to know, so cheerful is it all,
that, with a sob, that sob of farewell which the soul gives the
body,--the spirit of a man is passing the mile-posts called Life, Time,
and Eternity.
Yet another glance into passing incidents before we follow the straight
trail of our story. In the city of Montreal fourscore men are kneeling in
a little church, as the mass is slowly chanted at the altar. All of them
are armed. By the flare of the torches and the candles--for it is not
daybreak yet--you can see the flash of a scabbard, the glint of a knife,
and the sheen of a bandoleer.
Presently, from among them, one man rises, goes to the steps of the
sanctuary and kneels. He is the leader of the expedition, the Chevalier
de Troyes, the chosen of the governor. A moment, and three other men rise
and come and kneel beside him. These are three brothers, and one we
know--gallant, imperious, cordial, having the superior ease of the
courtier.
The four receive a blessing from a massive, handsome priest, whose face,
as it bends over Iberville, suddenly flushes with feeling. Presently the
others rise, but Iberville remains an instant longer, as if loth to
leave. The priest whispers to him: "Be strong, be just, be merciful."
The young man lifts his eyes to the priest's: "I will be just, abbe!"
Then the priest makes the sacred gesture over him.
CHAPTER IX
TO THE PORCH OF THE WORLD
The English colonies never had a race of woodsmen like the coureurs du
bois of New France. These were a strange mixture: French peasants,
half-breeds, Canadian-born Frenchmen, gentlemen of birth with lives and
fortunes gone askew, and many of the native Canadian noblesse, who, like
the nobles of France, forbidden to become merchants, became adventurers
with the coureurs du bois, who were ever with them in spirit more than
with the merchant. The peasant prefers the gentleman to the bourgeois as
his companion. Many a coureur du bois divided his tale of furs with a
distressed noble or seigneur, who dare not work in the fields.
The veteran Charles le Moyne, with his sons, each of whom played a daring
and important part in the history of New France,--Iberville
greatest,--was one of the few merchants in whom was combined the trader
and the noble. But he was a trader by profession before he became a
seigneur. In his veins was a strain of noble blood; but leaving France
and settling in Canada, he avoided the little Court at Quebec, went to
Montreal, and there began to lay the foundation of his fame and fortune,
and to send forth men who were as the sons of Jacob. In his heart he was
always in sympathy with the woodsmen, and when they were proclaimed as
perilous to the peace and prosperity of the king's empire, he stood
stoutly by them. Adventurers, they traded as they listed; and when the
Intendant Duchesnau could not bend them to his greedy will, they were to
be caught and hanged wherever found. King Louis hardly guessed that to
carry out that order would be to reduce greatly the list of his Canadian
noblesse. It struck a blow at the men who, in one of the letters which
the grim Frontenac sent to Versailles not long before his death, were
rightly called "The King's Traders"--more truly such than any others in
New France.
Whether or not the old seigneur knew it at the time, three of his own
sons were among the coureurs du bois--chieftains by courtesy--when they
were proclaimed. And it was like Iberville, that, then only a lad, he
came in from the woods, went to his father, and astonished him by asking
for his blessing. Then he started for Quebec, and arriving there with
Perrot and Du Lhut, went to the citadel at night and asked to be admitted
to Count Frontenac. Perhaps the governor-grand half-barbarian as he was
at heart-guessed the nature of the visit and, before he admitted
Iberville, dismissed those who were with him. There is in an old letter
still preserved by an ancient family of France, an account of this
interview, told by a cynical young nobleman. Iberville alone was
admitted. His excellency greeted his young visitor courteously, yet with
hauteur.
"You bring strange comrades to visit your governor, Monsieur Iberville,"
he said.
"Comrades in peace, your excellency, comrades in war."
"What war?"
"The king makes war against the coureurs du bois. There is a price on the
heads of Perrot and Du Lhut. We are all in the same boat."
"You speak in riddles, sir."
"I speak of riddles. Perrot and Du Lhut are good friends of the king.
They have helped your excellency with the Indians a hundred times. Their
men have been a little roystering, but that's no sin. I am one with them,
and I am as good a subject as the king has."
"Why have you come here?"
"To give myself up. If you shoot Perrot or Du Lhut you will have to shoot
me; and, if you carry on the matter, your excellency will not have enough
gentlemen to play Tartufe."