CHAPTER XX
THE LONG LEAGUER
Shackled with cold, iron fetters that chilled the earth to its marrow,the mighty northland lay desolate beneath the brief sunshine, fantasticunder the auroras. Past Fort Brondel the ghostly caribou hordes driftedrank on rank, coming from the foodless spaces, going where subsistencepermitted. In phantom packs the wolves howled by, trailing the swiftmoose across the crusted barrens. Four-legged creatures which neverhibernate foraged farther south where the snows were thinner. The wingedterrors of the air followed them, preying as opportunity afforded.Survival was ordained for only the strong, the fierce-fanged, thepredatory. Indented in the white surface of the forest aisles wereptarmigans' tracks and over these the long, shallow furrows left byswooping owls' wings.
A homely spot of life and warmth amid this vast desolation was the postof Brondel. All the Nor'west prisoners except Gaspard Follet, Glyndon,and Desiree had been transferred in care of a strong guard to OxfordHouse where they were confined under very strict surveillance in theblockhouse. The men of the guard returning brought news of how MalcolmMacleod, failing to surprise Fort Dumarge and rush its stockades, wasbesieging the place, hoping to starve it into surrender.
Dunvegan had hastened a messenger to Macleod, informing him of thecapture of Brondel. The Factor dispatched a runner back with orders forBruce to be ready to move on La Roche when Macleod should send him wordof his coming on the completion of his own project. Realizing the dangerin which he stood from the overwhelming power of his own desires,Dunvegan prayed in his heart for the fall of Fort Dumarge and the adventof the Factor. He thought he could find respite and ultimate safety inthe call which would summon him to the attack of La Roche away from thelure of Desiree Lazard.
But monotonously the short days slipped into long nights, and still noword came from Malcolm Macleod. Dumarge was proving stubborn.
Nor did the tiresome fort routine offer the chief trader any relief. Theunspeakable desolation all about, the inactivity, the eternal waiting,waiting for a command which failed to come, wore down by degrees thecontrol Dunvegan had exercised over his emotions up to this stage. Hispent-up passion was gradually gaining in volume. He knew that itstorrent must soon sweep him away, beating to atoms the barrier of moralcode which was now but an undermined protection. He was facing thecertain issue, understanding the immensity of his struggle, seeing nochance of escape.
True, he contemplated asking permission of the Factor to send Glyndonand Desiree to Oxford House. But over this he hesitated long, fearingthat beyond his guard Black Ferguson's cunning might prevail and thatDesiree might fall into the Nor'wester's grip. But finally, driven todesperation, Bruce started a runner on the trail to the beleagueringcamp outside the palisades of Dumarge, requesting the transfer of theprisoners to the home post.
Fate seemed determined to torture, to tempt, to break Dunvegan. Macleodwould not hear of such a proceeding. His answer was that neither EdwinGlyndon nor Gaspard Follet must pass from confinement or out of thechief trader's sight. The one-time clerk and the spy, possessingNor'west secrets and intimate knowledge of the enemy's affairs, werecaptives far too valuable in the Factor's eyes to be given the remotestopportunity of obtaining freedom. When he should have extractedmuch-desired information from them, Macleod planned to deal them thedeserts their actions had merited. Death he had decreed for Gaspard, ahundred lashes from dried moosehide thongs, a lone journey to YorkFactory, and a homeward working passage on a fur barque were promisedthe puerile drunkard. Incidentally the runner whom Bruce had sent outmentioned the presence of two strange men at Oxford House.
"What sort of men were they?" he asked the halfbreed courier.
"W'ite mans, ver' strong," replied the shrewd breed. "Look lak dey comefrom ovaire de Beeg Wenipak."
And Dunvegan knew that Granger and Garfield, the hardy deputies, alsoawaited the success of Malcolm Macleod. Like shadows since the first hadthey moved across the northern reaches from obscurity to certainty, fromvagueness to tangibility, omens of a coming law in the wilderness!
Also like a shadow Desiree Lazard flitted free before the chief traderin Fort Brondel. Bitter through her utter disillusionment, swept by afire as compelling as that against which Bruce Dunvegan battled, shecared not how high ran the tide of feeling. With a woman's instinctivepride in her powers she smiled on the re-awakening of the old love,thrilled to its magnifying intensity, responded with a half guiltyecstacy to its fierce, measureless strength.
Listening in the fort, Desiree would hear Bruce's rifle talking as hehunted through the lonely woods. It spoke to her of misery, pain, andyearning. Secretly she rejoiced. Then at night her eyes shone across tohim through the birch logs' glow. Her hair gleamed like the candlelight.Her lips allured through the half-dusk surrounding the crooningfireplace.
Maskwa, the wise old Ojibway, watching them thus evening after eveningas the long winter months slipped away, nodded darkly.
"Nenaubosho is working in them," he observed to himself. "Soft Eyes willlose his wife unless Stern Father comes to move us."
But Fort Dumarge, feeling the pinch of hunger, still held firm againstMalcolm Macleod.
As ever the evenings came round. Desiree's spell grew stronger. Theattitude of the two began to be marked by all in the fort as the curbloosened imperceptibly, but surely. Out of hearing in the blockhouse orthe trading room, the Hudson's Bay men commented on their leader'sstrange--to them--fight against his own inclination. A hard-bittencrowd, each followed impulse in the main. The only restriction theyacknowledged was the Company's discipline. They were north offifty-three, and they scorned the fine points of ecclesiastics. Tworuling powers they knew: red blood and a strong arm.
Because Bruce Dunvegan held the upper hand and wanted Desiree Lazard ashe wanted nothing else on earth, they marveled that he did not get ridof the prisoner and marry her. Behind the screen of hundreds of miles offorest they had seen the thing done many times before, and no one in theoutside world was the wiser.
"He goin' crazy eef somet'ing don' be happen," whispered BaptisteVerenne, one night when the winter had nearly run its course.
"'Tis always a woman as raises the divil," announced Terence Burke. "Oiwas engaged wanst meself, an' Rosie O'Shea niver gave me a minnit'speace till the day she bruk it."
"Hold on there," Connear cried. "You mean _you_ never gave _her_ aminute's peace. 'Twould be South Sea hell to live with you,Terence--even for a man!"
"Ye ear-ringed cannibal," returned Terence belligerently. "Divil a woman_would_ live wid ye, fer she'd be turned to rock salt by yer brinytongue."
Connear stuck out the offending member beneath his pipe stem.
"No woman will ever have the chance to do it," he declared. "I've beenin a few ports in my time. I've had my lesson."
"Now you spik," smiled Baptiste. "You be t'ink of dat tale you told'bout dat native girl w'en your boat she be stop at--w'at youcall?--dose Solomon Isle!"
"Yes," the ex-sailor replied. "Made love to me in the second watch andstabbed me in the back with one hand to leave the way clear for hertribe to murder the crew and loot the vessel."
"Oi didn't hear that, Peter," Burke prompted. "Go on wid it."
"Nothing to go on with," snapped Connear. "She pinked me too high up.Knife-point struck the shoulder blade, and my pistol went off before shecould give the signal yell."
"An' then?" Terence was interested.
"Nothin', I said. The crew rolled out. The night was so warm that theydidn't care to sleep any more. Oh, yes, and there was a village funeralin the mornin'!"
"Whose?"
"The girl's, you blockhead. Died of fever--a night attack!"
"Howly Banshees!" stammered Burke.
Baptiste Verenne crossed himself.
"So," nodded Maskwa, unmoved. "Soft Eyes might die of fever, or cold, orthe Red Death!"
South winds full of strange magic ate away the snows. Blinking evilly,the muskegs laughed in little gurglings and sucking sounds. The forestpools brimmed with blac
k water. Fresh, blue reservoirs the big lakesshimmered, while rivers swirled in brown, sinuous torrents.
Spring! The mallards shot overhead like emerald bullets.
Spring! The geese ran a compass line across the world.
Spring! The blood of every Northerner, man or woman, rioted madly,leaping untamable as the Blazing Pine River roaring past Fort Brondel.
Through some swift necromancy the frozen wilderness turned to anarboreal paradise. Bird songs fell sweet on ears tuned to brawlingblizzards. Music of rapid and waterfall seemed heavenly after theeternal hissing of the wind-freighted drifts. Hotly shone the sun,pouring vitality into the earth. Responsive the bloom came, wonderful,profligate, luxurious.
Gay as any of the mating birds Baptiste Verenne sang about the Post. Andwhen even the veins of squaw and husky thrilled with excess of vigor,the tremendous swelling and merging of the passion that absorbed Desireeand Dunvegan could be vaguely gauged. As surely as the glowing warmthof spring was increasing to febrile summer heat, the man was being drawnto the woman. The distance between them gradually lessened. Dumarge hadnot fallen.
Then from the South in the dusk of an evening came the canoe expressbearing the York Factory Packet in charge of Basil Dreaulond. SinceBrondel now belonged to the Hudson's Bay Company, that place had beenadded to the posts of call.
Baptiste Verenne sighted Basil and his bronzed paddlers far up theBlazing Pine before ever they reached the landing. Instantly FortBrondel was in an uproar, but in accordance with the rule in troublesometimes no one passed beyond the stockade to greet arrivals. The dangersof surprise was not courted.
Yet Baptiste had not been mistaken. Dreaulond and his men hailed thepost cheerily.
"_Hola!_" was the cry. "_Voyez le pacquet de la Compagnie._"
"_Oui, mes camarades_," shouted Verenne as sentinel from the highstockades. "_Entrez! Entrez vite!_"
Joyfully Brondel received them. "_Lettres par le Grand Pays_," shriekedthe volatile French-Canadians.
Bruce Dunvegan met Dreaulond in the store where he had his office asfactor of the fort.
"What news?" he questioned, gripping Basil's brown palm.
"Dumarge she be taken," replied the smiling courier.
"When?" Pain not joy filled Dunvegan to his bewilderment. He began tothink that he did not really understand himself or his feelings.
"'Fore I leave," Dreaulond responded. "De Factor send de word in de_pacquet_."
A startled, feminine cry echoed behind the men. Bruce swung on his heel.Her eyes brooding with half-formed fear, Desiree Lazard was regardingthem.
The chief trader motioned her out. She did not obey.
"He has won? The Factor has won at last?" Her manner was that of aperson who faces a calamity long-feared, hard-hated.
Dully Bruce nodded.
"The papers!" she exclaimed. "Open them! See when the force moves."
He broke the thongs of the packet like thread, rummaged the bundle, andfound the documents directed to him.
"Macleod will be here in two days," was his answer. "Now will you go!"
The intensity of Dunvegan bordered on savagery. Desiree slipped to thedoor. Outwardly conquered, she disappeared, but victory still lurked inher glance.
Basil Dreaulond wondered much at the chief trader's apparent mood, forhe was always gentle in the extreme when dealing with women. The couriercould not know that this was the bitterness of renunciation. He too wentsoftly away and left Dunvegan alone.
An Indian had taken Baptiste Verenne's position as sentinel, andBaptiste, hurrying through the yard, met Basil coming out of the fort.
"Got de fiddle ready, Baptiste?" asked the tanned courier, grinning.
It was the custom at the posts to hold a dance upon the arrival of thepacket. These festivals marked, as it were, the periods of relief andrelaxation from the toil and danger of the long, arduous packet route.
"_Oui_, for sure t'ing," Verenne replied. "I be beeg mans dis night,_mon camarade_!"
And a big man Baptiste was as, perched high on a corner table, he drewthe merry soul of him out across the strings of his instrument.
As he played, he smiled jubilantly down upon the light-hearted maze thatfilled the great floor of the trading room. The huge hall was decoratedby the quick hands of women for the occasion. Varicolored ribbons ranround the walls after the manner of bunting and fell in festoons fromthe beamed ceiling. Candles stood in rows upon mantels and shelves,shedding soft, silver light from under tinselled shades. Evergreenswere thrust in the fireplace and banked about with wild roses and themany flaming flowers of the wilderness. A sweet odor filled the air, anEden smell, the fragrance of the untainted forest.
Riotously, exuberantly the frolic began. Blood pulsed hotly. Feet werefree. Lips were ready. The Nor'westers' wives, the French-Canadiangirls, the halfbreed women swung madly through the square and stringdances with the Brondel men of their choice.
God of it all, Baptiste smiled perpetually over the tumult, quickeninghis music to a faster time, quivering the violin's fibres with sonorousvolume. Mad hornpipes he shrilled out, sailors' tunes which Pete Connearstepped till the rafters shook with the clatter. Snappy reels he unwoundin which Terence Burke led, throwing antics of Irish abandon thatconvulsed the throng. Also, Baptiste voiced the songs he loved, airs ofhis own race, dances he had whirled in old years with the belles of theChaudiere and the Gatineau.
Out of sympathy for the prisoners, Glyndon and Follet, when all theamusement was going on above, Bruce Dunvegan had ordered them to bebrought up. For the one evening they were allowe