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The Project Gutenberg EBook The Trail of The Sword, v1, by G. Parker
#33 in our series by Gilbert Parker
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**Welcome To The World of Free Plain Vanilla Electronic Texts**
**EBooks Readable By Both Humans and By Computers, Since 1971**
*****These EBooks Were Prepared By Thousands of Volunteers*****
Title: The Trail of the Sword, Volume 1.
Author: Gilbert Parker
Release Date: August, 2004 [EBook #6206]
[Yes, we are more than one year ahead of schedule]
[This file was first posted on September 23, 2002]
Edition: 10
Language: English
Character set encoding: ASCII
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TRAIL OF THE SWORD, V1, BY PARKER ***
This eBook was produced by David Widger <widger@cecomet.net>
[NOTE: There is a short list of bookmarks, or pointers, at the end of the
file for those who may wish to sample the author's ideas before making an
entire meal of them. D.W.]
TRAIL OF THE SWORD
By Gilbert Parker
CONTENTS:
EPOCH THE FIRST
I. AN ENVOY EXTRAORDINARY
II. THE THREAT OF A RENEGADE
III. THE FACE AT THE WINDOW
IV. THE UPLIFTING OF THE SWORDS
V. THE FRUITS OF THE LAW
VI. THE KIDNAPPING
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
EPOCH THE THIRD
XIII. "AS WATER UNTO WINE"
XIV. IN WHICH THE HUNTERS ARE OUT
XV. IN THE MATTER OF BUCKLAW
XVI. IN THE TREASURE HOUSE
XVII. THE GIFT OF A CAPTIVE
XVIII. MAIDEN NO MORE
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
WHEREIN IS SET FORTH THE HISTORY OF JESSICA LEVERET, AS ALSO THAT OF
PIERRE LE MOYNE OF IBERVILLE, GEORGE GERING, AND OTHER BOLD SPIRITS;
TOGETHER WITH CERTAIN MATTERS OF WAR, AND THE DEEDS OF ONE EDWARD
BUCKLAW, MUTINEER AND PIRATE
DEDICATION
My Dear Father:
Once, many years ago, in a kind of despair, you were impelled to say
that I would "never be anything but a rascally lawyer." This, it
may be, sat upon your conscience, for later you turned me gravely
towards Paley and the Thirty-nine Articles; and yet I know that in
your deepest soldier's heart, you really pictured me, how
unavailingly, in scarlet and pipe-clay, and with sabre, like
yourself in youth and manhood. In all I disappointed you, for I
never had a brief or a parish, and it was another son of yours who
carried on your military hopes. But as some faint apology--I almost
dare hope some recompense for what must have seemed wilfulness, I
send you now this story of a British soldier and his "dear maid,"
which has for its background the old city of Quebec, whose high
ramparts you walked first sixty years ago; and for setting, the
beginning of those valiant fightings, which, as I have heard you
say, "through God's providence and James Wolfe, gave England her
best possession."
You will, I feel sure, quarrel with the fashion of my campaigns, and
be troubled by my anachronisms; but I beg you to remember that long
ago you gave my young mind much distress when you told that
wonderful story, how you, one man, "surrounded" a dozen enemies, and
drove them prisoners to headquarters. "Surrounded" may have been
mere lack of precision, but it serves my turn now, as you see. You
once were--and I am precise here--a gallant swordsman: there are
legends yet of your doings with a crack Dublin bully. Well, in the
last chapter of this tale you shall find a duel which will perhaps
recall those early days of this century, when your blood was hot and
your hand ready. You would be distrustful of the details of this
scene, did I not tell you that, though the voice is Jacob's the hand
is another's. Swordsmen are not so many now in the army or out of
it, that, among them, Mr. Walter Herrim Pollock's name will have
escaped you: so, if you quarrel, let it be with Esau; though, having
good reason to be grateful to him, that would cause me sorrow.
My dear father, you are nearing the time-post of ninety years, with
great health and cheerfulness; it is my hope you may top the arch of
your good and honourable life with a century key-stone.
Believe me, sir,
Your affectionate son,
GILBERT PARKER.
15th September, 1894,
7 Park Place,
St. James's S.W.
INTRODUCTION
THE TRAIL OF THE SWORD
This book, like Mrs. Falchion, was published in two volumes in January.
That was in 1894. It appeared first serially in the Illustrated London
News, for which paper, in effect, it was written, and it also appeared in
a series of newspapers in the United States during the year 1893. This
was a time when the historical novel was having its vogue. Mr. Stanley
Weyman, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, and a good many others were following
the fashion, and many of the plays at the time were also historical--
so-called. I did not write The Trail of the Sword because it was in
keeping with the spirit of the moment. Fashion has never in the least
influenced my writing or my literary purposes. Whatever may be thought
of my books, they represent nothing except my own bent of mind, my own
wilful expression of myself, and the setting forth of that which seized
my imagination.
I wrote The Trail of the Sword because the early history of the
struggles between the French and English and the North American Continent
interested me deeply and fascinated my imagination. Also, I had a most
intense desire to write of the Frenchman of the early days of the old
regime; and I have no idea why it was so, because I have no French blood
in my veins nor any trace of French influence in my family. There is,
however, the Celtic strain, the Irish blood, immediate of the tang, as it
were, and no doubt a sympathy between the Celtic and the Gallic strain is
very near, and has a tendency to become very dear. It has always been a
difficulty for me to do anything except show the more favourable side of
French character and life.
I am afraid that both in The Trail of the Sword, which was the forerunner
of The Seats of the Mighty, the well sunk, in a sense, out of which the
latter was drawn, I gave my Frenchman the advantage over his English
rival. In The Trail of the Sword, the gallant French adventurer's
chivalrous but somewhat merciless soul, makes a better picture than does
his more phlegmatic but brave and honourable antagonist, George Gering.
Also in The Seats of the Mighty, Doltaire, the half-villain, overshadows
the good English hero from first to last; and yet, despite the
unconscious partiality for the individual in both books, English
character and the English as a race, as a whole, are dominant in the
narrative.
There is a long letter, as a dedication to this book, addressed to my
father; there is a note also, which explains the spirit in which the book
was written, and I have no desire to enlarge this introduction in the
presence of these prefaces to the first edition. But I may say that this
book was gravely important to me, because it was to test all my capacity
for writing a novel with an historical background, and, as it were, in
the custom of a bygone time. It was not really the first attempt at
handling a theme belonging to past generations, because I had written for
Good Words, about the year 1890, a short novel which I called The Chief
Factor, a tale of the Hudson's Bay Company. It was the first novel or
tale of mine which secured copyright under the new American copyright act
of 1892.
There was a circumstance connected with this publication which is
interesting. When I arrived in New York, I had only three days in which
to have the book printed in order to secure the copyright before Good
Words published the novel as its Christmas annual in its entirety. I
tried Messrs. Harper & Brothers, and several other publishers by turn,
but none of them could undertake to print the book in the time. At last
some kind friend told me to go to the Trow Directory Binding Company,
which I did. They said they could not print the story in the time.
I begged them to reconsider. I told them how much was at stake for me.
I said that I would stay in the office and read the proofs as they came
from the press, and would not move until it was finished. Refusal had
been written on the lips and the face of the manager at the beginning,
but at last I prevailed. He brought the foreman down there and then.
Each of us, elated by the conditions of the struggle, determined to pull
the thing off. We printed that book of sixty-five thousand words or so,
in forty-eight hours, and it arrived in Washington three hours before the
time was up. I saved the copyright, and I need hardly say that my
gratitude to the Trow Directory Binding Company was as great as their
delight in having done a really brilliant piece of work.
The day after the copyright was completed, I happened to mention the
incident to Mr. Archibald Clavering Gunter, author of Mr. Barnes of New
York, who had a publishing house for his own books. He immediately made
me an offer for The Chief Factor. I hesitated, because I had been
dealing with great firms like Harpers, and, to my youthful mind, it
seemed rather beneath my dignity to have the imprint of so new a firm as
the Home Publishing Company on the title-page of my book. I asked the
advice of Mr. Walter H. Page, then editor of The Forum, now one of the
proprietors of The World's Work and Country Life, and he instantly said:
"What difference does it make who publishes your book? It is the public
you want."
I did not hesitate any longer. The Chief Factor went to Mr. Archibald
Clavering Gunter and the Home Publishing Company, and they made a very
large sale of it. I never cared for the book however; it seemed stilted
and amateurish, though some of its descriptions and some of its dialogues
were, I think, as good as I can do; so, eventually, in the middle
nineties, I asked Mr. Gunter to sell me back the rights in the book and
give me control of it. This he did. I thereupon withdrew it from
publication at once, and am not including it in this subscription
edition. I think it better dead. But the writing of it taught me better
how to write The Trail of the Sword; though, if I had to do this book
again, I could construct it better.
I think it fresh and very vigorous, and I think it does not lack
distinction, while a real air of romance--of refined romance--pervades
it. But I know that Mr. W. E. Henley was right when, after most
generously helping me to revise it, with a true literary touch
wonderfully intimate and affectionate, he said to me: "It is just not
quite big, but the next one will get home."
He was right. The Trail of the Sword is "just not quite," though I think
it has charm; but it remained for The Seats of the Mighty to get home, as
"W. E. H.", the most exacting, yet the most generous, of critics, said.
This book played a most important part in a development of my literary
work, and the warm reception by the public--for in England it has been
through its tenth edition, and in America through proportionate
thousands--was partly made possible by the very beautiful illustrations
which accompanied its publication in The Illustrated London News. The
artist was A. L. Forestier, and never before or since has my work
received such distinguished pictorial exposition, save, perhaps, in The
Weavers, when Andre Castaigne did such triumphant work. It is a joy
still to look at the illustrations of The Trail of the Sword, for,
absolutely faithful to the time, they add a note of verisimilitude to the
tale.
A NOTE
The actors in this little drama played their parts on the big stage of a
new continent two hundred years ago. Despots sat upon the thrones of
France and England, and their representatives on the Hudson and the St.
Lawrence were despots too, with greater opportunity and to better ends.
In Canada, Frontenac quarreled with his Intendant and his Council, set
a stern hand upon the Church when she crossed with his purposes, cajoled,
treated with, and fought the Indians by turn, and cherished a running
quarrel with the English Governor of New York. They were striving for
the friendship of the Iroquois on the one hand, and for the trade of the
Great West on the other. The French, under such men as La Salle, had
pushed their trading posts westward to the great lakes and beyond the
Missouri, and north to the shores of Hudson's Bay. They traded and
fought and revelled, hot with the spirit of adventure, the best of
pioneers and the worst of colonists. Tardily, upon their trail, came the
English and the Dutch, slow to acquire but strong to hold; not so rash in
adventure, nor so adroit in intrigue, as fond of fighting, but with less
of the gift of the woods, and much more the faculty for government.
There was little interchange of friendliness and trade between the rival
colonists; and Frenchmen were as rare on Manhattan Island as Englishmen
on the heights of Quebec--except as prisoners.
G. P.
THE TRAIL OF THE SWORD
EPOCH THE FIRST
I. AN ENVOY EXTRAORDINARY
II. THE THREAT OF A RENEGADE
III. THE FACE AT THE WINDOW
IV. THE UPLIFTING OF THE SWORDS
V. THE FRUITS OF THE LAW
VI. THE KIDNAPPING
CHAPTER I
AN ENVOY EXTRAORDINARY
One summer afternoon a tall, good-looking stripling stopped in the midst
of the town of New York, and asked his way to the governor's house. He
attracted not a little attention, and he created as much astonishment
when he came into the presence of the governor. He had been announced as
an envoy from Quebec. "Some new insolence of the County Frontenac!"
cried old Richard Nicholls, bringing his fist down on the table. For a
few minutes he talked with his chamberfellow; then, "Show the gentleman
in," he added. In the room without, the envoy from Quebec had stood
flicking the dust from his leggings with a scarf. He was not more than
eighteen, his face had scarcely an inkling of moustache, but he had an
easy upright carriage, with an air of self-possession, the keenest of
grey eyes, a strong pair of shoulders, a look of daring about his rather
large mouth, which lent him a manliness well warranting his present
service. He had been left alone, and the first thing he had done was to
turn on his heel and examine the place swiftly. This he seemed to do
mechanically, not as one forecasting danger, not as a spy. In the curve
of his lips, in an occasional droop of his eyelids, there was a
suggestion of humour: less often a quality of the young than of the old.
For even in the late seventeenth century, youth took itself seriously at
times.
Presently, as he stood looking at the sunshine through the open door,
a young girl came into the lane of light, waved her hand, with a little
laugh, to some one in the distance, and stepped inside. At first she did
not see him. Her glances were still cast back the way she had come.
The young man could not follow her glance, nor was he anything curious.
Young as he was, he could enjoy a fine picture. There was a pretty
demureness in the girl's manner, a warm piquancy in the turn of the neck,
and a delicacy in her gestures, which to him, fresh from hard hours in
the woods, was part of some delightful Arcady--though Arcady was more in
his veins than of his knowledge. For the young seigneur of New France
spent far more hours with his gun than with his Latin, and knew his bush-
ranging vassal better than his tutor; and this one was too complete a
type of his order to reverse its record. He did not look to his scanty
lace, or set himself seemingly; he did but stop flicking the scarf held
loose in his fingers, his foot still on the bench. A smile played at his
lips, and his eyes had a gleam of raillery. He heard the girl say in a
soft, quaint voice, just as she turned towards him, "Foolish boy!" By
this he knew that the pretty picture had for its inspiration one of his
own sex.
She faced him, and gave a little cry of surprise. Then their eyes met.
Immediately he made the most elaborate bow of all his life, and she swept
a graceful courtesy. Her face was slightly flushed that this stranger
should have seen, but he carried such an open, cordial look that she
paused, instead of hurrying into the governor's room, as she had seemed
inclined to do.
In the act the string of her hat, slung over her arm, came loose, and the
hat fell to the floor. Instantly he picked it up and returned it.
Neither had spoken a word. It seemed another act of the light pantomime
at the door. As if they had both thought on the instant how droll it
was, they laughed, and she said to him naively: "You have come to visit
the governor? You are a Frenchman, are you not?"
To this in slow and careful English, "Yes," he replied; "I have come from
Canada to see his excellency. Will you speak French?"
"If you please, no," she answered, smiling; "your English is better than
my French. But I must go." And she turned towards the door of the
governor's room.
"Do not go yet," he said. "Tell me, are you the governor's daughter?"
She paused, her hand at the door. "Oh no," she answered; then, in a
sprightly way--"are you a governor's son?"
"I wish I were," he said, "for then there'd be a new intendant, and we'd
put Nick Perrot in the council."
"What is an intendant?" she asked, "and who is Nick Perrot?"
"Bien! an intendant is a man whom King Louis appoints to worry the
governor and the gentlemen of Canada, and to interrupt the trade.
Nicolas Perrot is a fine fellow, and a great coureur du bois, and helps
to get the governor out of troubles to-day, the intendant to-morrow.
He is a splendid fighter. Perrot is my friend."
He said this, not with an air of boasting, but with a youthful and
enthusiastic pride, which was relieved, by the twinkle in his eyes and
his frank manner.
"Who brought you here?" she asked demurely. "Are they inside with the
governor?"
He saw the raillery; though, indeed, it was natural to suppose that he
had no business with the governor, but had merely come with some one.
The question was not flattering. His hand went up to his chin a little
awkwardly. She noted how large yet how well-shaped it was, or, rather,
she remembered afterwards. Then it dropped upon the hilt of the rapier
he wore, and he answered with good self-possession, though a little hot
spot showed on his cheek: "The governor must have other guests who are
no men of mine; for he keeps an envoy from Count Frontenac long in his
anteroom."
The girl became very youthful indeed, and a merry light danced in her
eyes and warmed her cheek. She came a step nearer. "It is not so?
You do not come from Count Frontenac--all alone, do you?"
"I'll tell you after I have told the governor," he answered, pleased and
amused.
"Oh, I shall hear when the governor hears," she answered, with a soft
quaintness, and then vanished into the governor's chamber. She had
scarce entered when the door opened again, and the servant, a Scotsman,
came out to say that his excellency would receive him. He went briskly
forward, but presently paused. A sudden sense of shyness possessed him.
It was not the first time he had been ushered into vice-regal presence,
but his was an odd position. He was in a strange land, charged with an
embassy which accident had thrust upon him. Then, too, the presence of
the girl had withdrawn him for an instant from the imminence of his duty.
His youth came out of him, and in the pause one could fairly see him turn
into man.
He had not the dark complexion of so many of his race, but was rather
Saxon in face, with rich curling brown hair. Even in that brave time one
might safely have bespoken for him a large career. And even while the
Scotsman in the doorway eyed him with distant deprecation, as he eyed all
Frenchmen, good and bad, ugly or handsome, he put off his hesitation and
entered the governor's chamber. Colonel Nicholls came forward to greet
him, and then suddenly stopped, astonished. Then he wheeled upon the
girl. "Jessica, you madcap!" he said in a low voice.
She was leaning against a tall chair, both hands grasping the back of it,
her chin just level with the top. She had told the governor that Count
Frontenac had sent him a lame old man, and that, enemy or none, he ought
not to be kept waiting, with arm in sling and bandaged head. Seated at
the table near her was a grave member of the governor's council, William
Drayton by name. He lifted a reproving finger at her now, but with a
smile on his kindly face, and "Fie, fie, young lady!" he said, in a
whisper.
Presently the governor mastered his surprise, and seeing that the young
man was of birth and quality, extended his hand cordially enough, and
said: "I am glad to greet you, sir;" and motioned him to a seat. "But,
pray, sit down," he added, "and let us hear the message Count Frontenac
has sent. Meanwhile we would be favoured with your name and rank."
The young man thrust a hand into his doublet and drew forth a packet of
papers. As he handed it over, he said in English--for till then the
governor had spoken French, having once served with the army of France,
and lived at the French Court: "Your excellency, my name is Pierre le
Moyne of Iberville, son of Charles le Moyne, a seigneur of Canada, of
whom you may have heard." (The governor nodded.) "I was not sent by
Count Frontenac to you. My father was his envoy: to debate with you
our trade in the far West and our dealings with the Iroquois."
"Exactly," said old William Drayton, tapping the table with his
forefinger; "and a very sound move, upon my soul."
"Ay, ay," said the governor, "I know of your father well enough. A good
fighter and an honest gentleman, as they say. But proceed, Monsieur le
Moyne of Iberville."
"I am called Iberville," said the young man simply. Then: "My father and
myself started from Quebec with good Nick Perrot, the coureur du bois--"
"I know him too," the governor interjected--"a scoundrel worth his weight
in gold to your Count Frontenac."
"For whose head Count Frontenac has offered gold in his time," answered
Iberville, with a smile.
"A very pretty wit," said old William Drayton, nodding softly towards the
girl, who was casting bright, quizzical glances at the youth over the
back of the chair.
Iberville went on: "Six days ago we were set upon by a score of your
Indians, and might easily have left our scalps with them; but, as it
chanced, my father was wounded, I came off scot-free, and we had the
joy of ridding your excellency of half a dozen rogues."
The governor lifted his eyebrows and said nothing. The face of the girl
over against the back of the chair had become grave.
"It was in question whether Perrot or I should bear Count Frontenac's
message. Perrot knew the way, I did not; Perrot also knew the Indians."
"But Perrot," said the governor blufily, "would have been the letter-
carrier; you are a kind of ambassador. Upon my soul, yes, a sort of
ambassador!" he added, enjoying the idea; for, look at it how you would,
Iberville was but a boy.
"That was my father's thought and my own," answered Iberville coolly.
"There was my father to care for till his wound was healed and he could
travel back to Quebec, so we thought it better Perrot should stay with
him. A Le Moyne was to present himself, and a Le Moyne has done so."
The governor was impressed more deeply than he showed. It was a time of
peace, but the young man's journey among Indian braves and English
outlaws, to whom a French scalp was a thing of price, was hard and
hazardous. His reply was cordial, then his fingers came to the seal
of the packet; but the girl's hand touched his arm.
"I know his name," she said in the governor's ear, "but he does not know
mine."
The governor patted her hand, and then rejoined: "Now, now, I forgot the
lady; but I cannot always remember that you are full fifteen years old."
Standing up, with all due gravity and courtesy, "Monsieur Iberville," he
said, "let me present you to Mistress Jessica Leveret, the daughter of my
good and honoured and absent friend, the Honourable Hogarth Leveret."
So the governor and his councillor stood shoulder to shoulder at one
window, debating Count Frontenac's message; and shoulder to shoulder at
another stood Iberville and Jessica Leveret. And what was between these
at that moment--though none could have guessed it--signified as much to
the colonies of France and England, at strife in the New World, as the
deliberations of their elders.
CHAPTER II
THE THREAT OF A RENEGADE
Iberville was used to the society of women. Even as a young lad, his
father's notable place in the colony, and the freedom and gaiety of life
in Quebec and Montreal, had drawn upon him a notice which was as much a
promise of the future as an accent of the present. And yet, through all
of it, he was ever better inspired by the grasp of a common soldier, who
had served with Carignan-Salieres, or by the greeting and gossip of such
woodsmen as Du Lhut, Mantet, La Durantaye, and, most of all, his staunch
friend Perrot, chief of the coureurs du bois. Truth is, in his veins was
the strain of war and adventure first and before all. Under his tutor,
the good Pere Dollier de Casson, he had never endured his classics, save
for the sake of Hector and Achilles and their kind; and his knowledge of
English, which his father had pressed him to learn,--for he himself had
felt the lack of it in dealings with Dutch and English traders,--only
grew in proportion as he was given Shakespeare and Raleigh to explore.
Soon the girl laughed up at him. "I have been a great traveller," she
said, "and I have ears. I have been as far west as Albany and south to
Virginia, with my father, who, perhaps you do not know, is in England
now. And they told me everywhere that Frenchmen are bold, dark men, with
great black eyes and very fine laces and wigs, and a trick of bowing and
making foolish compliments; and they are not to be trusted, and they will
not fight except in the woods, where there are trees to climb. But I see
that it is not all true, for you are not dark, your eyes are not big or
black, your laces are not much to see, you do not make compliments--"
"I shall begin now," he interrupted.
"--you must be trusted a little, or Count Frontenac would not send you,
and--and--tell me, would you fight if you had a chance?"
No one of her sex had ever talked so to Iberville. Her demure raillery,
her fresh, frank impertinence, through which there ran a pretty air of
breeding, her innocent disregard of formality, all joined to impress him,
to interest him. He was not so much surprised at the elegance and
cleverness of her speech, for in Quebec girls of her age were skilled in
languages and arts, thanks to the great bishop, Laval, and to Marie of
the Incarnation. In response to her a smile flickered upon his lips. He
had a quick fierce temper, but it had never been severely tried; and so
well used was he to looking cheerfully upon things, so keen had been his
zest in living, that, where himself was concerned, his vanity was not
easily touched. So, looking with genial dryness, "You will hardly
believe it, of course," he said, "but wings I have not yet grown, and the
walking is bad 'twixt here and the Chateau St. Louis."
"Iroquois traps," she suggested, with a smile. "With a trick or two of
English footpads," was his reply.
Meanwhile his eye had loitered between the two men in council at the
farther window and the garden, into which he and the girl were looking.
Presently he gave a little start and a low whistle, and his eyelids
slightly drooped, giving him a handsome sulkiness. "Is it so?" he said
between his teeth: "Radisson--Radisson, as I live!"
He had seen a man cross a corner of the yard. This man was short, dark-
bearded, with black, lanky hair, brass earrings, and buckskin leggings,
all the typical equipment of the French coureur du bois. Iberville had
only got one glance at his face, but the sinister profile could never be
forgotten. At once the man passed out of view. The girl had not seen
him, she had been watching her companion. Presently she said, her
fingers just brushing his sleeve, for he stood eyeing the point where the
man had disappeared: "Wonderful! You look now as if you would fight.
Oh, fierce, fierce as the governor when he catches a French spy!"
He turned to her and, with a touch of irony, "Pardon!" he retorted.
"Now I shall look as blithe as the governor when a traitor deserts to
him."
Of purpose he spoke loud enough to be heard by the governor and his
friend. The governor turned sharply on him. He had caught the ring in
the voice, that rash enthusiasm of eager youth, and, taking a step
towards Iberville, Count Frontenac's letter still poised in his hand:
"Were your words meant for my hearing, monsieur?" he said. "Were you
speaking of me or of your governor?"
"I was thinking of one Radisson a traitor, and I was speaking of
yourself, your excellency."
The governor had asked his question in French, in French the reply was
given. Both the girl and Councillor Drayton followed with difficulty.
Jessica looked a message to her comrade in ignorance. The old man
touched the governor's arm. "Let it be in English if monsieur is
willing. He speaks it well."
The governor was at work to hide his anger: he wished good greeting to
Count Frontenac's envoy, and it seemed not fitting to be touched by the
charges of a boy. "I must tell you frankly, Monsieur Iberville," he
said, "that I do not choose to find a sort of challenge in your words;
and I doubt that your father, had he been here, would have spoke quite so
roundly. But I am for peace and happy temper when I can. I may not help
it if your people, tired of the governance of Louis of France, come into
the good ruling of King Charles. As for this man Radisson: what is it
you would have?"
Iberville was now well settled back upon his native courage.
He swallowed the rebuke with grace, and replied with frankness: "Radisson
is an outlaw. Once he attempted Count Frontenac's life. He sold a band
of our traders to the Iroquois. He led your Hollanders stealthily to cut
off the Indians of the west, who were coming with their year's furs to
our merchants. There is peace between your colony and ours--is it fair
to harbour such a wretch in your court-yard? It was said up in Quebec,
your excellency, that such men have eaten at your table."
During this speech the governor seemed choleric, but a change passed
over him, and he fell to admiring the lad's boldness. "Upon my soul,
monsieur," he said, "you are council, judge, and jury all in one; but I
think I need not weigh the thing with you, for his excellency, from whom
you come, has set forth this same charge,"--he tapped the paper,--"and we
will not spoil good-fellowship by threshing it now." He laughed a little
ironically. "And I promise you," he added, "that your Radisson shall
neither drink wine nor eat bread with you at my table. And now, come,
let us talk awhile together; for, lest any accident befall the packet you
shall bear, I wish you to carry in your memory, with great distinctness,
the terms of my writing to your governor. I would that it were not to be
written, for I hate the quill, and I've seen the time I would rather
point my sword red than my quill black."
By this the shadows were falling. In the west the sun was slipping down
behind the hills, leaving the strong day with a rosy and radiant glamour,
that faded away in eloquent tones to the grey, tinsel softness of the
zenith. Out in the yard a sumach bush was aflame. Rich tiger-lilies
thrust in at the sill, and lazy flies and king bees boomed in and out of
the window. Something out of the sunset, out of the glorious freshness
and primal majesty of the new land, diffused through the room where those
four people stood, and made them silent. Presently the governor drew his
chair to the table, and motioned Councillor Drayton and Iberville to be
seated.
The girl touched his arm. "And where am I to sit?" she asked demurely.
Colonel Nicholls pursed his lips and seemed to frown severely on her.
"To sit? Why, in your room, mistress. Tut, tut, you are too bold.
If I did not know your father was coming soon to bear you off, new orders
should be issued. Yes, yes, e'en as I say," he added, as he saw the
laughter in her eyes.
She knew that she could wind the big-mannered soldier about her finger.
She had mastered his household; she was the idol of the settlement,
her flexible intelligence, the flush of the first delicate bounty of
womanhood had made him her slave. In a matter of vexing weight he would
not have let her stay, but such deliberatings as he would have with
Iberville could well bear her scrutiny. He reached out to pinch her
cheek, but she deftly tipped her head and caught his outstretched
fingers. "But where am I to sit?" she persisted. "Anywhere, then, but
at the council-table," was his response, as he wagged a finger at her and
sat down. Going over she perched herself on a high stool in the window
behind Iberville. He could not see her, and, if he thought at all about
it, he must have supposed that she could not see him. Yet she could; for
against the window-frame was a mirror, and it reflected his face and the
doings at the board. She did not listen to the rumble of voices. She
fell to studying Iberville. Once or twice she laughed softly to herself.
As she turned to the window a man passed by and looked in at her. His
look was singular, and she started. Something about his face was
familiar. She found her mind feeling among far memories, for even the
past of the young stretches out interminably. She shuddered, and a
troubled look came into her eyes. Yet she could not remember. She
leaned slightly forward, as if she were peering into that by-gone world
which, maybe, is wider than the future for all of us--the past. Her eyes
grew deep and melancholy. The sunset seemed to brighten around her all
at once, and enmesh her in a golden web, burnishing her hair, and it fell
across her brow with a peculiar radiance, leaving the temples in shadow,
softening and yet lighting the carmine of her cheeks and lips, giving a
feeling of life to her dress, which itself was like dusty gold. Her
hands were caught and clasped at her knees. There was something
spiritual and exalted in the picture. It had, too, a touch of tragedy,
for something out of her nebulous past had been reflected in faint
shadows in her eyes, and this again, by strange, delicate processes, was
expressed in every line of her form, in all the aspect of her face. It
was as if some knowledge were being filtered to her through myriad
atmospheres of premonition; as though the gods in pity foreshadowed a
great trouble, that the first rudeness of misery might be spared.
She did not note that Iberville had risen, and had come round the table
to look over Councillor Drayton's shoulder at a map spread out. After
standing a moment watching, the councillor's finger his pilot, he started
back to his seat. As he did so he caught sight of her still in that
poise of wonderment and sadness. He stopped short, then glanced at
Colonel Nicholls and the councillor. Both were bent over the map,
talking in eager tones. He came softly round the table, and was about
to speak over her shoulder, when she drew herself up with a little shiver
and seemed to come back from afar. Her hands went up to her eyes. Then
she heard him. She turned quickly, with the pageant of her dreams still
wavering in her face; smiled at him distantly, looked towards the window
again in a troubled way, then stepped softly and swiftly to the door, and
passed out. Iberville watched the door close and turned to the window.
Again he saw, and this time nearer to the window, Radisson, and with him
the man who had so suddenly mastered Jessica.
He turned to Colonel Nicholls. "Your excellency," he said, "will you not
let me tell Count Frontenac that you forbid Radisson your purlieus? For,
believe me, sir, there is no greater rogue unhanged, as you shall find
some day to the hurt of your colony, if you shelter him."
The governor rose and paced the room thoughtfully. "He is proclaimed by
Frontenac?" he asked.
"A price is on his head. As a Frenchman I should shoot him like a wolf
where'er I saw him; and so I would now were I not Count Frontenac's
ambassador and in your excellency's presence."
"You speak manfully, monsieur," said the governor, not ill-pleased; "but
how might you shoot him now? Is he without there?" At this he came to
where Iberville stood, and looked out. "Who is the fellow with him?"
he asked.
"A cut-throat scoundrel, I'll swear, though his face is so smug," said
Iberville. "What think you sir?" turning to the councillor, who was
peering between their shoulders.
"As artless yet as strange a face as I have ever seen," answered the
merchant. "What's his business here, and why comes he with the other
rogue? He would speak with your excellency, I doubt not," he added.
Colonel Nicholls turned to Iberville. "You shall have your way," he
said. "Yon renegade was useful when we did not know what sudden game was
playing from Chateau St. Louis; for, as you can guess, he has friends as
faithless as himself. But to please your governor, I will proclaim him."
He took his stick and tapped the floor. Waiting a moment, he tapped
again. There was no sign. He opened the door; but his Scots body-guard
was not in sight. "That's unusual," he said. Then, looking round:
"Where is our other councillor? Gone?" he laughed. "Faith, I did not
see her go. And now we can swear that where the dear witch is will
Morris, my Scotsman, be found. Well, well! They have their way with us
whether we will or no. But, here, I'll have your Radisson in at once."
He was in act to call when Morris entered. With a little hasty rebuke
he gave his order to the man. "And look you, my good Morris," he added,
"tell Sherlock and Weir to stand ready. I may need the show of
firearms."
Turning to Iberville, he said: "I trust you will rest with us some days,
monsieur. We shall have sports and junketings anon. We are not yet so
grim as our friends in Massachusetts."
"I think I might venture two days with you, sir, if for nothing else,
to see Radisson proclaimed. Count Frontenac would gladly cut months from
his calendar to know you ceased to harbour one who can prove no friend,"
was the reply.
The governor smiled. "You have a rare taste for challenge, monsieur.
To be frank, I will say your gift is more that of the soldier than the
envoy. But upon my soul, if you will permit me, I think no less of you
for that."
Then the door opened, and Morris brought in Radisson. The keen, sinister
eyes of the woodsman travelled from face to face, and then rested
savagely on Iberville. He scented trouble, and traced it to its source.
Iberville drew back to the window and, resting his arm on the high stool
where Jessica had sat, waited the event. Presently the governor came
over to him.
"You can understand," he said quietly, "that this man has been used by my
people, and that things may be said which--"
Iberville waved his hand respectfully. "I understand, your excellency,"
he said. "I will go." He went to the door.
The woodsman as he passed broke out: "There is the old saying of the
woods, 'It is mad for the young wolf to trail the old bear.'"
"That is so," rejoined Iberville, with excellent coolness, "if the wolf
holds not the spring of the trap."
In the outer room were two soldiers and the Scot. He nodded, passed into
the yard, and there he paced up and down. Once he saw Jessica's face at
a window, he was astonished to see how changed. It wore a grave, an
apprehensive look. He fell to wondering, but, even as he wondered, his
habit of observation made him take in every feature of the governor's
house and garden, so that he could have reproduced all as it was mirrored
in his eye. Presently he found himself again associating Radisson's
comrade with the vague terror in Jessica's face. At last he saw the
fellow come forth between two soldiers, and the woodsman turned his head
from side to side, showing his teeth like a wild beast at sight of
Iberville. His black brows twitched over his vicious eyes. "There are
many ways to hell, Monsieur Iberville," he said. "I will show you one.
Some day when you think you tread on a wisp of straw, it will be a snake
with the deadly tooth. You have made an outlaw--take care! When the
outlaw tires of the game, he winds it up quick. And some one pays for
the candles and the cards."
Iberville walked up to him. "Radisson," he said in a voice well
controlled, "you have always been an outlaw. In our native country you
were a traitor; in this, you are the traitor still. I am not sorry for
you, for you deserve not mercy. Prove me wrong. Go back to Quebec;
offer to pay with your neck, then--"
"I will have my hour," said the woodsman, and started on.
"It's a pity," said Iberville to himself--"as fine a woodsman as Perrot,
too!"
CHAPTER III
THE FACE AT THE WINDOW
At the governor's table that night certain ladies and gentlemen assembled
to do the envoy honour. There came, too, a young gentleman, son of a
distinguished New Englander, his name George Gering, who was now in New
York for the first time. The truth is, his visit was to Jessica, his old
playmate, the mistress of his boyhood. Her father was in England, her
mother had been dead many years, and Colonel Nicholls and his sister
being kinsfolk, a whole twelvemonth ago she had been left with them. Her
father had thought at first to house her with his old friend Edward
Gering, but he loved the Cavalier-like tone of Colonel Nicholls's
household better than the less inspiriting air which Madam Puritan Gering
suffused about her home. Himself in early youth had felt the austerity
of a Cavalier father turned a Puritan on a sudden, and he wished no such
experience for his daughter. For all her abundancy of life and feeling,
he knew how plastic and impressionable she was, and he dreaded to see
that exaltation of her fresh spirit touched with gloom. She was his only
child, she had been little out of his sight, her education had gone on
under his own care, and, in so far as was possible in a new land, he had
surrounded her with gracious influences. He looked forward to any
definite separation (as marriage) with apprehension. Perhaps one of the
reasons why he chose Colonel Nicholls's house for her home, was a fear
lest George Gering should so impress her that she might somehow change
ere his return. And in those times brides of sixteen were common as now
they are rare.
She sat on the governor's left. All the brightness, the soft piquancy,
which Iberville knew, had returned; and he wondered--fortunate to know
that wonder so young--at her varying moods. She talked little, and most
with the governor; but her presence seemed pervasive, the aura in her
veins flowed from her eye and made an atmosphere that lighted even the
scarred and rather sulky faces of two officers of His Majesty near. They
had served with Nicholls in Spain, but not having eaten King Louis's
bread, eyed all Frenchmen askance, and were not needlessly courteous to
Iberville, whose achievements they could scarce appreciate, having done
no Indian fighting.
Iberville sat at the governor's end, Gering at the other. It was noticed
by Iberville that Gering's eyes were much on Jessica, and in the spirit
of rivalry, the legitimate growth of race and habit, he began to speak to
her with the air of easy but deliberate playfulness which marked their
first meeting.
Presently she spoke across the table to him, after Colonel Nicholls had
pledged him heartily over wine. The tone was a half whisper as of awe,
in reality a pretty mockery. "Tell me," she said, "what is the bravest
and greatest thing you ever did?"
"Jessica, Jessica!" said the governor in reproof. An old Dutch burgher
laughed into his hand, and His Majesty's officers cocked their ears, for
the whisper was more arresting than any loud talk. Iberville coloured,
but the flush passed quickly and left him unembarrassed. He was not
hurt, not even piqued, for he felt well used to her dainty raillery. But
he saw that Gering's eyes were on him, and the lull that fell as by a
common instinct--for all could not have heard the question--gave him a
thrill of timidity. But, smiling, he said drily across the table, his
voice quiet and clear: "My bravest and greatest thing was to answer an
English lady's wit in English."
A murmur of applause ran round, and Jessica laughed and clapped her
hands. For the first time in his life Gering had a pang of jealousy and
envy. Only that afternoon he had spent a happy hour with Jessica in the
governor's garden, and he had then made an advance upon the simple
relations of their life in Boston. She had met him without self-
consciousness, persisting in her old ways, and showing only when she left
him, and then for a breath, that she saw his new attitude. Now the eyes
of the two men met, and Gering's dark face flushed and his brow lowered.
Perhaps no one saw but Iberville, but he, seeing, felt a sudden desire to
play upon the other's weakness. He was too good a sportsman to show
temper in a game; he had suddenly come to the knowledge that love, too,
is a game, and needs playing. By this time the dinner was drawing to its
close and now a singular thing happened. As Jessica, with demure
amusement, listened to the talk that followed Iberville's sally, she
chanced to lift her eyes to a window. She started, changed colour, and
gave a little cry. The governor's hand covered hers at once as he
followed her look. It was a summer's night and the curtained windows
were partly open. Iberville noted that Jessica's face wore the self-same
shadow as in the afternoon when she had seen the stranger with Radisson.
"What was it, my dear?" said the governor.
She did not answer, but pressed his hand nervously. "A spy, I believe,"
said Iberville, in a low voice. "Yes, yes," said Jessica in a half
whisper; "a man looked in at the window; a face that I have seen--but
I can't remember when."
The governor went to the window and drew the curtains. There was nothing
to see. He ordered Morris, who stood behind his chair, to have the
ground searched and to bring in any straggler. Already both the officers
were on their way to the door, and at this point it opened and let in a
soldier. He said that as he and his comrade were returning from their
duty with Radisson they saw a man lurking in the grounds and seized him.
He had made no resistance, and was now under guard in the ante-room. The
governor apologised to his guests, but the dinner could not be ended
formally now, so the ladies rose and retired. Jessica, making a mighty
effort to recover herself, succeeded so well that ere she went she was
able to reproach herself for her alarm; the more so because the
governor's sister showed her such consideration as would be given a
frightened child--and she had begun to feel something more.
The ladies gone, the governor drew his guests about him and ordered in
the prisoner. Morris spoke up, saying that the man had begged an
interview with the governor that afternoon, but, being told that his
excellency was engaged, had said another hour would do. This man was the
prisoner. He came in under guard, but he bore himself quietly enough and
made a low bow to the governor. He was not an ill-favoured fellow. His
eye was steely cold, but his face was hearty and round, and remarkably
free from viciousness. He had a cheerful air and an alert freedom of
manner, which suggested good-fellowship and honest enterprise.
Where his left hand had been was an iron hook, but not obtrusively in
view, nor did it give any marked grimness to his appearance. Indeed, the
effect was almost comical when he lifted it and scratched his head and
then rubbed his chin with it; it made him look part bumpkin and part
sailor. He bore the scrutiny of the company very well, and presently
bowed again to the governor as one who waited the expression of that
officer's goodwill and pleasure.
"Now, fellow," said the colonel, "think yourself lucky my soldiers here
did not shoot you without shrift. You chance upon good-natured times.
When a spying stranger comes dangling about these windows, my men are
given to adorning the nearest tree with him. Out with the truth now.
Who and what are you, and why are you here?"
The fellow bowed. "I am the captain of a little trading schooner, the
Nell Gwynn, which anchors in the roadstead till I have laid some private
business before your excellency and can get on to the Spanish Indies."
"Business--private business! Then what in the name of all that's
infernal," quoth Nicholls, "brought your sneaking face to yon window to
fright my lady-guests?" The memory of Jessica's alarm came hotly to his
mind. "By Heaven," he said, "I have a will to see you lifted, for means
to better manners."
The man stood very quiet, now and again, however, raising the hook to
stroke his chin. He showed no fear, but Iberville, with his habit of
observation, caught in his eyes, shining superficially with a sailor's
open honesty, a strange ulterior look. "My business," so he answered
Nicholls, "is for your excellency's ears." He bowed again.
"Have done with scraping. Now, I tell you what, my gentle spy, if your
business hath not concern, I'll stretch you by your fingers there to our
public gallows, and my fellows shall fill you with small shot as full as
a pod of peas."
The governor rose and went into another room, followed by this strange
visitor and the two soldiers. There he told the guard to wait at the
door, which entered into the ante-room. Then he unlocked a drawer and
took out of it a pair of pistols. These he laid on the table (for he
knew the times), noting the while that the seaman watched him with a
pensive, deprecating grin.