Romany of the Snows, Continuation of Pierre and His People, v4

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A ROMANY OF THE SNOWS

BEING A CONTINUATION OF THE PERSONAL HISTORIES OF "PIERRE AND HIS PEOPLE"
AND THE LAST EXISTING RECORDS OF PRETTY PIERRE

By Gilbert Parker

Volume 4.

LITTLE BABICHE
AT POINT O' BUGLES
THE SPOIL OF THE PUMA
THE TRAIL OF THE SUN DOGS
THE PILOT OF BELLE AMOUR

LITTLE BABICHE

"No, no, m'sieu' the governor, they did not tell you right. I was with
him, and I have known Little Babiche fifteen years--as long as I've known
you. . . . It was against the time when down in your world there they
have feastings, and in the churches the grand songs and many candles on
the altars. Yes, Noel, that is the word--the day of the Great Birth.
You shall hear how strange it all was--the thing, the time, the end of
it."

The governor of the great Company settled back in a chair, his powerful
face seamed by years, his hair grey and thick still, his keen, steady
eyes burning under shaggy brows. He had himself spent long solitary
years in the wild fastnesses of the north. He fastened his dark eyes on
Pierre, and said: "Monsieur Pierre, I shall be glad to hear. It was at
the time of Noel--yes?"

Pierre began: "You have seen it beautiful and cold in the north, but
never so cold and beautiful as it was last year. The world was white
with sun and ice, the frost never melting, the sun never warming--just
a glitter, so lovely, so deadly. If only you could keep the heart warm,
you were not afraid. But if once--just for a moment--the blood ran out
from the heart and did not come in again, the frost clamped the doors
shut, and there was an end of all. Ah, m'sieu', when the north clinches
a man's heart in anger there is no pain like it--for a moment."

"Yes, yes; and Little Babiche?"

"For ten years he carried the mails along the route of Fort St. Mary,
Fort O'Glory, Fort St. Saviour, and Fort Perseverance within the circle-
just one mail once a year, but that was enough. There he was with his
Esquimaux dogs on the trail, going and coming, with a laugh and a word
for anyone that crossed his track. 'Good-day, Babiche' 'Good-day,
m'sieu'.' 'How do you, Babiche?' 'Well, thank the Lord, m'sieu'.'
'Where to and where from, Babiche?' 'To the Great Fort by the old trail,
from the Far-off River, m'sieu'.' 'Come safe along, Babiche.' 'Merci,
m'sieu'; the good God travels north, m'sieu'.' 'Adieu, Babiche.' 'Adieu,
m'sieu'.' That is about the way of the thing, year after year. Sometimes
a night at a hut or a post, but mostly alone--alone, except for the dogs.
He slept with them, and they slept on the mails--to guard: as though
there should be highwaymen on the Prairie of the Ten Stars! But no, it
was his way, m'sieu'. Now and again I crossed him on the trail, for have
I not travelled to every corner of the north? We were not so great
friends, for--well, Babiche is a man who says his aves, and never was a
loafer, and there was no reason why he should have love for me; but we
were good company when we met. I knew him when he was a boy down on the
Chaudiere, and he always had a heart like a lion-and a woman. I had seen
him fight, I had seen him suffer cold, and I had heard him sing.

"Well, I was up last fall to Fort St. Saviour. Ho, how dull was it!
Macgregor, the trader there, has brains like rubber. So I said, I will
go down to Fort O'Glory. I knew someone would be there--it is nearer the
world. So I started away with four dogs and plenty of jerked buffalo,
and so much brown brandy as Macgregor could squeeze out of his eye!
Never, never were there such days--the frost shaking like steel and
silver as it powdered the sunlight, the white level of snow lifting and
falling, and falling and lifting, the sky so great a travel away, the air
which made you cry out with pain one minute and gave you joy the next.
And all so wild, so lonely! Yet I have seen hanging in those plains
cities all blue and red with millions of lights showing, and voices,
voices everywhere, like the singing of soft masses. After a time in that
cold up there you are no longer yourself--no. You move in a dream. "Eh
bien, m'sieu', there came, I thought, a dream to me one evening--well,
perhaps one afternoon, for the days are short--so short, the sun just
coming over a little bend of sky, and sinking down like a big orange
ball. I come out of a tumble of little hills, and there over on the
plains I saw a sight! Ragged hills of ice were thrown up, as if they'd
been heaved out by the breaking earth, jutting here and there like
wedges--like the teeth of a world. Alors, on one crag, shaped as an
anvil, I saw what struck me like a blow, and I felt the blood shoot out
of my heart and leave it dry. I was for a minute like a pump with no
water in its throat to work the piston and fetch the stream up. I got
sick and numb. There on that anvil of snow and ice I saw a big white
bear, one such as you shall see within the Arctic Circle, his long nose
fetching out towards that bleeding sun in the sky, his white coat
shining. But that was not the thing--there was another. At the feet of
the bear was a body, and one clawed foot was on that body--of a man. So
clear was the air, the red sun shining on the face as it was turned
towards me, that I wonder I did not at once know whose it was. You
cannot think, m'sieu', what that was like--no. But all at once I
remembered the Chant of the Scarlet Hunter. I spoke it quick, and the
blood came creeping back in here." He tapped his chest with his slight
forefinger.

"What was the chant?" asked the governor, who had scarce stirred a
muscle since the tale began. Pierre made a little gesture of
deprecation. "Ah, it is perhaps a thing of foolishness, as you may
think--"

"No, no. I have heard and seen in my day," urged the governor.

"So? Good. Yes, I remember, you told me years ago, m'sieu'. . . .

"The blinding Trail and Night and Cold are man's: mine is the trail
that finds the Ancient Lodge. Morning and Night they travel with
me; my camp is set by the pines, its fires are burning--are burning.
The lost, they shall sit by my fires, and the fearful ones shall
seek, and the sick shall abide. I am the Hunter, the Son of the
North; I am thy lover where no man may love thee. With me thou
shalt journey, and thine the Safe Tent.

"As I said, the blood came back to my heart. I turned to my dogs, and
gave them a cut with the whip to see if I dreamed. They sat back and
snarled, and their wild red eyes, the same as mine, kept looking at the
bear and the quiet man on the anvil of ice and snow. Tell me, can you
think of anything like it?--the strange light, the white bear of the
Pole, that has no friends at all except the shooting stars, the great ice
plains, the quick night hurrying on, the silence--such silence as no man
can think! I have seen trouble flying at me in a hundred ways, but this
was different--yes. We come to the foot of the little hill. Still the
bear not stir. As I went up, feeling for my knives and my gun, the dogs
began to snarl with anger, and for one little step I shivered, for the
thing seem not natural. I was about two hundred feet away from the bear
when it turned slow round at me, lifting its foot from the body. The
dogs all at once come huddling about me, and I dropped on my knee to take
aim, but the bear stole away from the man and come moving down past us at
an angle, making for the plain. I could see his deep shining eyes, and
the steam roll from his nose in long puffs. Very slow and heavy, like as
if he see no one and care for no one, he shambled down, and in a minute
was gone behind a boulder. I ran on to the man--"

The governor was leaning forward, looking intently, and said now: "It's
like a wild dream--but the north--the north is near to the Strangest of
All!"

"I knelt down and lifted him up in my arms, all a great bundle of furs
and wool, and I got my hand at last to his wrist. He was alive. It was
Little Babiche! Part of his face was frozen stiff. I rubbed out the
frost with snow, and then I forced some brandy into his mouth, good old
H.B.C. brandy,--and began to call to him: 'Babiche! Babiche! Come
back, Babiche! The wolf's at the pot, Babiche!' That's the way to call
a hunter to his share of meat. I was afraid, for the sleep of cold is
the sleep of death, and it is hard to call the soul back to this world.
But I called, and kept calling, and got him on his feet, with my arm
round him. I gave him more brandy; and at last I almost shrieked in his
ear. Little by little I saw his face take on the look of waking life.
It was like the dawn creeping over white hills and spreading into day.
I said to myself: What a thing it will be if I can fetch him back!
For I never knew one to come back after the sleep had settled on them.
It is too comfortable--all pain gone, all trouble, the world forgot, just
a kind weight in all the body, as you go sinking down, down to the
valley, where the long hands of old comrades beckon to you, and their
soft, high voices cry, 'Hello! hello-o!'" Pierre nodded his head
towards the distance, and a musing smile divided his lips on his white
teeth. Presently he folded a cigarette, and went on:

"I had saved something to the last, as the great test, as the one thing
to open his eyes wide, if they could be opened at all. Alors, there was
no time to lose, for the wolf of Night was driving the red glow-worm down
behind the world, and I knew that when darkness came altogether--darkness
and night--there would be no help for him. Mon Dieu! how one sleeps in
the night of the north, in the beautiful wide silence! . . . So,
m'sieu', just when I thought it was the time, I called, 'Corinne!
Corinne!' Then once again I said, 'P'tite Corinne! P'tite Corinne!
Come home! come home! P'tite Corinne!' I could see the fight in the
jail of sleep. But at last he killed his jailer; the doors in his brain
flew open, and his mind came out through his wide eyes. But he was blind
a little and dazed, though it was getting dark quick. I struck his back
hard, and spoke loud from a song that we used to sing on the Chaudiere--
Babiche and all of us, years ago. Mon Dieu! how I remember those days--

"'Which is the way that the sun goes?
The way that my little one come.
Which is the good path over the hills?
The path that leads to my little one's home--
To my little one's home, m'sieu', m'sieu'!'

"That did it. 'Corinne, ma p'tite Corinne!' he said; but he did not look
at me--only stretch out his hands. I caught them, and shook them, and
shook him, and made him take a step forward; then I slap him on the back
again, and said loud: 'Come, come, Babiche, don't you know me? See
Babiche, the snow's no sleeping-bunk, and a polar bear's no good friend.'
'Corinne!' he went on, soft and slow. 'Ma p'tite Corinne!' He smiled to
himself; and I said, 'Where've you been, Babiche? Lucky I found you, or
you'd have been sleeping till the Great Mass.' Then he looked at me
straight in the eyes, and something wild shot out of his. His hand
stretched over and caught me by the shoulder, perhaps to steady himself,
perhaps because he wanted to feel something human. Then he looked round
slow-all round the plain, as if to find something. At that moment a
little of the sun crept back, and looked up over the wall of ice, making
a glow of yellow and red for a moment; and never, north or south, have I
seen such beauty--so delicate, so awful. It was like a world that its
Maker had built in a fit of joy, and then got tired of, and broke in
pieces, and blew out all its fires, and left--ah yes--like that!
And out in the distance I--I only saw a bear travelling eastwards."

The governor said slowly:

And I took My staff Beauty, and cut it asunder, that I might break
My covenant which I had made with all the people.

"Yes--like that." Pierre continued: "Babiche turned to me with a little
laugh, which was a sob too. 'Where is it, Pierre?' said he. I knew he
meant the bear. 'Gone to look for another man,' I said, with a gay look,
for I saw that he was troubled. 'Come,' said he at once. As we went, he
saw my dogs. He stopped short and shook a little, and tears came into
his eyes. 'What is it, Babiche?' said I. He looked back towards the
south. 'My dogs--Brandy-wine, Come-along, 'Poleon, and the rest--died
one night all of an hour. One by one they crawl over to where I lay in
my fur bag, and die there, huddling by me--and such cries--such cries!
There was poison or something in the frozen fish I'd given them. I loved
them every one; and then there was the mails, the year's mails--how
should they be brought on? That was a bad thought, for I had never
missed--never in ten years. There was one bunch of letters which the
governor said to me was worth more than all the rest of the mails put
together, and I was to bring it to Fort St. Saviour, or not show my face
to him again. I leave the dogs there in the snow, and come on with the
sled, carrying all the mails. Ah, the blessed saints, how heavy the sled
got, and how lonely it was! Nothing to speak to--no one, no thing, day
after day. At last I go to cry to the dogs, "Come-along! 'Poleon!
Brandy-wine!"--like that! I think I see them there, but they never bark
and they never snarl, and they never spring to the snap of the whip....
I was alone. Oh, my head! my head! If there was only something alive
to look at, besides the wide white plain, and the bare hills of ice, and
the sun-dogs in the sky! Now I was wild, next hour I was like a child,
then I gnash my teeth like a wolf at the sun, and at last I got on my
knees. The tears froze my eyelids shut, but I kept saying, "Ah, my great
Friend, my Jesu, just something, something with the breath of life!
Leave me not all alone!" and I got sleepier all the time.

"'I was sinking, sinking, so quiet and easy, when all at once I felt
something beside me; I could hear it breathing, but I could not open my
eyes at first, for, as I say, the lashes were froze. Something touch me,
smell me, and a nose was push against my chest. I put out my hand ver'
soft and touch it. I had no fear, I was so glad I could have hug it, but
I did not--I drew back my hand quiet and rub my eyes. In a little I can
see. There stand the thing--a polar bear--not ten feet away, its red
eyes shining. On my knees I spoke to it, talk to it, as I would to a
man. It was like a great wild dog, fierce, yet kind, and I fed it with
the fish which had been for Brandy-wine and the rest--but not to kill it!
and it did not die. That night I lie down in my bag--no, I was not
afraid! The bear lie beside me, between me and the sled. Ah, it was
warm! Day after day we travel together, and camp together at night--ah,
sweet Sainte Anne, how good it was, myself and the wild beast such
friends, alone in the north! But to-day--a little while ago--something
went wrong with me, and I got sick in the head, a swimming like a tide
wash in and out. I fall down-asleep. When I wake I find you here beside
me--that is all. The bear must have drag me here.'"

Pierre stuck a splinter into the fire to light another cigarette, and
paused as if expecting the governor to speak, but no word coming, he
continued: "I had my arm around him while we talked and come slowly down
the hill. Soon he stopped and said, 'This is the place.' It was a cave
of ice, and we went in. Nothing was there to see except the sled.
Babiche stopped short. It come to him now that his good comrade was
gone. He turned, and looked out, and called, but there was only the
empty night, the ice, and the stars. Then he come back, sat down on the
sled, and the tears fall. . . . I lit my spirit-lamp, boiled coffee,
got pemmican from my bag, and I tried to make him eat. No. He would
only drink the coffee. At last he said to me, 'What day is this,
Pierre?' 'It is the day of the Great Birth, Babiche,' I said. He made
the sign of the cross, and was quiet, so quiet! but he smile to himself,
and kept saying in a whisper: 'Ma p'tite Corinne! Ma p'tite Corinne!'
The next day we come on safe, and in a week I was back at Fort St.
Saviour with Babiche and all the mails, and that most wonderful letter
of the governor's."

"The letter was to tell a factor that his sick child in the hospital at
Quebec was well," the governor responded quietly. "Who was 'Ma p'tite
Corinne,' Pierre?"

"His wife--in heaven; and his child--on the Chaudiere, m'sieu'. The
child came and the mother went on the same day of the Great Birth. He
has a soft heart--that Babiche!"

"And the white bear--so strange a thing!"

"M'sieu', who can tell? The world is young up here. When it was all
young, man and beast were good comrades, maybe."

"Ah, maybe. What shall be done with Little Babiche, Pierre?"

"He will never be the same again on the old trail, m'sieu'!"

There was silence for a long time, but at last the governor said, musing,
almost tenderly, for he never had a child: "Ma p'tite Corinne!--Little
Babiche shall live near his child, Pierre. I will see to that."

Pierre said no word, but got up, took off his hat to the governor, and
sat down again.

AT POINT O' BUGLES

"John York, John York, where art thou gone, John York?"

"What's that, Pierre?" said Sir Duke Lawless, starting to his feet and
peering round.

"Hush!" was Pierre's reply. "Wait for the rest. . . . There!"

"King of my heart, king of my heart, I am out on the trail of thy
bugles."

Sir Duke was about to speak, but Pierre lifted a hand in warning, and
then through the still night there came the long cry of a bugle, rising,
falling, strangely clear, echoing and echoing again, and dying away. A
moment, and the call was repeated, with the same effect, and again a
third time; then all was still, save for the flight of birds roused from
the desire of night, and the long breath of some animal in the woods
sinking back to sleep.

Their camp was pitched on the south shore of Hudson's Bay, many leagues
to the west of Rupert House, not far from the Moose River. Looking north
was the wide expanse of the bay, dotted with sterile islands here and
there; to the east were the barren steppes of Labrador, and all round
them the calm, incisive air of a late September, when winter begins to
shake out his frosty curtains and hang them on the cornice of the north,
despite the high protests of the sun. The two adventurers had come
together after years of separation, and Sir Duke had urged Pierre to fare
away with him to Hudson's Bay, which he had never seen, although he had
shares in the great Company, left him by his uncle the admiral.

They were camped in a hollow, to the right a clump of hardy trees, with
no great deal of foliage, but some stoutness; to the left a long finger
of land running out into the water like a wedge, the most eastern point
of the western shore of Hudson's Bay. It was high and bold, and,
somehow, had a fine dignity and beauty. From it a path led away north to
a great log-fort called King's House.

Lawless saw Pierre half rise and turn his head, listening. Presently he,
too, heard the sound-the soft crash of crisp grass under the feet. He
raised himself to a sitting posture and waited.

Presently a tall figure came out of the dusk into the light of their
fire, and a long arm waved a greeting at them. Both Lawless and Pierre
rose to their feet. The stranger was dressed in buckskin, he carried a
rifle, and around his shoulder was a strong yellow cord, from which hung
a bugle.

"How!" he said, with a nod, and drew near the fire, stretching out his
hands to the blaze.

"How!" said Lawless and Pierre.

After a moment Lawless drew from his blanket a flask of brandy, and
without a word handed it over the fire. The fingers of the two men met
in the flicker of flames, a sort of bond by fire, and the stranger raised
the flask.

"Chin-chin," he said, and drank, breathing a long sigh of satisfaction
afterwards as he handed it back; but it was Pierre that took it, and
again fingers touched in the bond of fire. Pierre passed the flask to
Lawless, who lifted it.

"Chin-chin," he said, drank, and gave the flask to Pierre again, who did
as did the others, and said "Chin-chin" also.

By that salutation of the east, given in the far north, Lawless knew that
he had met one who had lighted fires where men are many and close to the
mile as holes in a sieve.

They all sat down, and tobacco went round, the stranger offering his,
while the two others, with true hospitality, accepted.

"We heard you over there--it was you?" said Lawless, nodding towards
Point o' Bugles, and glancing at the bugle the other carried.

"Yes, it was I," was the reply. "Someone always does it twice a year: on
the 25th September and the 25th March. I've done it now without a break
for ten years, until it has got to be a sort of religion with me, and the
whole thing's as real as if King George and John York were talking. As I
tramp to the point or swing away back, in summer barefooted, in winter on
my snowshoes, to myself I seem to be John York on the trail of the king's
bugles. I've thought so much about the whole thing, I've read so many of
John York's letters--and how many times one of the King's!--that now I
scarcely know which is the bare story, and which the bit's I've dreamed
as I've tramped over the plains or sat in the quiet at King's House,
spelling out little by little the man's life, from the cues I found in
his journal, in the Company's papers, and in that one letter of the
King's."

Pierre's eyes were now more keen than those of Lawless: for years he had
known vaguely of this legend of Point o' Bugles.

"You know it all," he said--"begin at the beginning: how and when you
first heard, how you got the real story, and never mind which is taken
from the papers and which from your own mind--if it all fits in it is all
true, for the lie never fits in right with the square truth. If you have
the footprints and the handprints you can tell the whole man; if you have
the horns of a deer you know it as if you had killed it, skinned it, and
potted it."

The stranger stretched himself before the fire, nodding at his hosts as
he did so, and then began:

"Well, a word about myself first," he said, "so you'll know just where
you are. I was full up of life in London town and India, and that's a
fact. I'd plenty of friends and little money, and my will wasn't equal
to the task of keeping out of the hands of the Jews. I didn't know what
to do, but I had to go somewhere, that was clear. Where? An accident
decided it. I came across an old journal of my great-grandfather, John
York,--my name's Dick Adderley,--and just as if a chain had been put
round my leg and I'd been jerked over by the tipping of the world, I had
to come to Hudson's Bay. John York's journal was a thing to sit up
nights to read. It came back to England after he'd had his fill of
Hudson's Bay and the earth beneath, and had gone, as he himself said on
the last page of the journal, to follow the king's buglers in 'the land
that is far off.' God and the devil were strong in old John York.
I didn't lose much time after I'd read the journal. I went to Hudson's
Bay house in London, got a place in the Company, by the help of the
governor himself, and came out. I've learned the rest of the history of
old John York--the part that never got to England; for here at King's
House there's a holy tradition that the real John York belongs to it and
to it alone."

Adderley laughed a little. "King's House guards John York's memory, and
it's as fresh and real here now as though he'd died yesterday; though
it's forgotten in England, and by most who bear his name, and the present
Prince of Wales maybe never heard of the roan who was a close friend of
the Prince Regent, the First Gentleman of Europe."

"That sounds sweet gossip," said Lawless, with a smile; "we're waiting."

Adderley continued: "John York was an honest man, of wholesome sport,
jovial, and never shirking with the wine, commendable in his appetite,
of rollicking soul and proud temper, and a gay dog altogether--gay, but
to be trusted, too, for he had a royal heart. In the coltish days of the
Prince Regent he was a boon comrade, but never did he stoop to flattery,
nor would he hedge when truth should be spoken, as ofttimes it was needed
with the royal blade, for at times he would forget that a prince was yet
a man, topped with the accident of a crown. Never prince had truer
friend, and so in his best hours he thought, himself, and if he ever was
just and showed his better part, it was to the bold country gentleman who
never minced praise or blame, but said his say and devil take the end of
it. In truth, the Prince was wilful, and once he did a thing which might
have given a twist to the fate of England. Hot for the love of women,
and with some dash of real romance in him too, else even as a prince he
might have had shallower love and service,--he called John York one day
and said:

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