Early candlelight, p.21
Early Candlelight, page 21
Men who had made many homes saw their homes go down that day. There was old man Perret. Old man Perret who had made clocks in Switzerland and had found there was little demand for clocks on that bleak Canadian river to which the dreamy Lord Selkirk had enticed him. Old man Perret who had made a home, nevertheless, and battled with burning winds and blinding snows. Old man Perret who was beaten at last, and led his wife and little daughters southward and gained Fort Snelling after many perils and made another home. Old man Perret who had been turned out and had stoutly made another, and now must make another one still. Tears dropped into his long white beard as he watched his cabin fall.
Old man Perret and others like him stood and watched the soldiers at their work. Some were from Switzerland, some from France; some, like Denis DuGay, had grown old in service on the rivers of this land, and wanted only a bit of its ground to till in peace. The soldiers began by tearing off the roof. Did they know how long it took a man to split a clapboard by hand? Some wept, like old man Perret. Some watched with dry eyes of despair. Some said later that the soldiers had been cruel, had taunted the men and spoken lightly to the women, had wantonly broken the humble stools and tables as they tossed them out of doors. Some said they did their work with shamed reluctance, an embarrassed lieutenant looking on.
Certainly at the DuGays’ this last was true. It was not easy for the soldiers to open to the wind and rain a snug little cabin which had been a home to them, a place where they had been treated with kindness and respect. It was sour labor for every one of them to unroof the home of Dee DuGay.
She was about this morning, and they were glad that she was too busy to watch them.
“There, now, father, take the fiddle and start on. Wasn’t it good of Vital Guérin to offer to take us in? That’s what it is to have a voyageur comrade. Here, mother, you take the hens. I think you’d better carry them yourself. You know they won’t lay if they get frightened.”
But her tactful persuasions were of no avail. Tess and Denis would not move a foot. This was home, and they were old, and they stood silently side by side while the logs came hurtling down. The work progressed with painful slowness. The cabin had been sturdily built.
The little boys were easier to manage. Dee started them down river with the sheep. There was no need to load them as before, for M’sieu Page had sent a keel boat. Dee had, astonishingly, wanted to send it back when Hypolite arrived with it, rejoicing.
“But why? What madness! Besides, it isn’t just for us, it is to help the Perrets also, and anyone who needs assistance.”
So she had yielded; and as the soldiers threw out their belongings—table, benches, stools, blankets, feather pillows, kettles and pans—the brothers carried them to the keel boat. When it was loaded, it pushed off with Amable and Hypolite aboard. Dee and Narcisse, George and Lafe, were left with the father and mother.
There was nothing to do but wait. And the waiting was heartbreaking business. It had the agonized suspense of waiting for a death. The end of the cabin was very near. The fireplace was going. The soldiers shattered it with great sledge hammers and rolled the stones apart. Dee, wrapped in her little black shawl, looked around at the watchers. Denis and Tess had drawn close. Despairing as they were, she knew they gave each other comfort, and it was Narcisse who troubled her most.
Narcisse was so quiet. He had been quiet all day. Dee had expected him to curse and shout, to start a fight with someone. But he simply looked on at the wrecking with brooding black eyes. The soldiers liked Narcisse, and one or two came up and told him they were sorry. He shook his tousled head.
“Sacré, I onderstan’ dat. I onderstan’ well, ma frien’.”
When the cabin was in ruins at last, he took Tess’s arm very gently. He loaded her and Denis into his canoe, with the hens and the fiddle and Tess’s Sunday cap. Before he pushed off he returned to the cotton-wood dugout in which Dee and George and Lafe were settled.
He inspected their cargo with quick, practiced eyes, and then he lingered a moment. He looked down upon them with a strangely wistful gaze. Narcisse was different these days, thought Dee. He had changed since he lost his license. When drinking he was the same, of course, surly and unapproachable, but he was drinking less, not more. And when he was sober he no longer flashed from gay to somber moods. Dee missed his moods. She missed his black despairs no less than the bursts of exuberant spirits which made him so childlike and dear. She was puzzled by the gentleness, the humble tenderness with which he treated them all. He acted, she thought, as though he expected to lose them the next minute.
“We’ll be careful,” she called. “We’ll trail you down river.”
They were going down river, of course. Up river it was military land. It was natural for the refugees to choose as the site for new cabins the high plateau beyond the tamarack swamp. This was covered with red and white oaks, and although it dropped in a sheer white cliff to the river, it drew back, north and south, and left low bottoms and coves where steamboats might conveniently land. Before it two islands floated on the water. Below it the Mississippi made a stately and beautiful bend. It was the striking height which the Sioux had called White Rock before old Pig’s Eye fastened his name upon it.
The cabin which had been Pig’s Eye’s soon came into view, hanging from the cliff. It was strange, thought Dee, how they followed that one-eyed old rogue down the river. He had sold claim and cabin to Benjamin Gervais, had got ten dollars for it, and had scrambled down the cliff and put up another hovel at one of the places where steamboats might edge in. On the height beside Gervais, Vital Guérin had a cabin on a claim which had once belonged to the murdered Hays. Near this Hypolite’s crew had dumped the goods and chattels of the household of DuGay.
Hypolite and Amable with the little boys were outlined now on the crest of the hill. Denis and Tess were small, tired figures climbing through the cold May dusk. Narcisse climbed behind them, laden with the fiddle and the hens.
Dee, George and Lafe beached their canoe and took the steep path with the feet of youth. They overtook the others at Guérin’s door.
The hospitable Frenchman’s home looked very cheerful to the homeless ones. A fire was roaring; the tallow dips were lighted, and there was a smell of pea soup. A glass of wine was ready for old Denis, whose cheeks above his beard were moist and pale, and whose eyes seemed to have sunk in his head during this day. The wine soon brightened his eyes, however, and Tess felt better, too, when she got her bulk on a wide bench and off her aching feet. The brothers, except for Narcisse, grew sociably talkative over Vital Guérin’s hot meal.
Narcisse kept his silence. While the others lingered at the table, he withdrew to the hearth and pulled out and lighted his pipe. The children left the table and came to play in the firelight, and Narcisse smoked, his eyes resting upon them. His eyes held that look which Dee had puzzled over, the look of wistful, humble tenderness. He pulled Andy up to his knee and held him there a moment, ruffling the soft hair on the little head.
Dee was so much occupied with getting them all fed and finding room for so many to sleep in that bachelor cabin, that she did not notice Narcisse was gone until her mother spoke.
“Where is Narcisse, boys? I thought he was there with you.”
“He’s gone,” piped Andy.
“Gone where?” asked Tess.
“I don’t know. He told me when he was gone to tell you not to worry.”
Amable and Hypolite went to the doorway, lifting the blanket which covered it. Moonlight shimmered on the empty river far below. Nobody spoke, but more than Dee thought of Pig’s Eye’s cabin hugging the foot of the cliff.
“Perhaps he went back to help the Perrets,” said kindly Vital Guérin.
“He’ll be coming in later,” Denis agreed.
But when all were asleep except Dee, Narcisse had not yet come in. Dee was very wakeful, although her host had insisted on her taking one of the bunks. Her father and mother had the other. Dee was slow to sleep these nights. During the day she kept busy. She worked with a feverish energy which kept heartache at bay. But at night, when she had no more to do, it flooded in upon her, filling every cranny of her being.
She thought back then to the chilly dawn when she had stolen from the stone house. Anger had still warmed her. It had warmed her as she made her way down river through a slowly paling world. But when a day had passed, anger passed too. In its stead came a humbling thought. Perhaps she had been wrong and M’sieu Page had kissed her merely on a casual impulse. Perhaps that glowing conviction of his love had been a vision born of her love for him.
Under that thought her pride suffered and writhed. And other thoughts came to humble her further. Every word she had said to him returned to run her through. She could not forget a single one. The news trickled down that the Boles had arrived; laughing news trickled down later that M’sieu Page was as constant as ever in his devotion to his lady. Dee’s cheeks burned with tortured pride in the darkness every night. But sweeping out pride came heartache, always. It was that which held her longest from the solace of sleep. It was that which held her to-night.
She stared at the fire while it sputtered and died. On the loft over her head slept Vital Guérin and the long line of her brothers—all but Narcisse. Worry for Narcisse returned, but the day had been cruelly hard. Fatigue had its way at last. Dee slept so soundly that of all those in the cabin she was the last to wake.
The men were already gone, her mother said, smiling. They had tiptoed about, in order not to waken her. Hypolite had returned to the island, the rest were about the business of choosing a site for the cabin. While Dee brushed her eyes and condemned her laziness, Tess brought a cup of crust coffee. She sat down on the edge of the bunk while Dee gratefully drank it.
“Did Narcisse come back?” asked Dee.
“No,” answered Tess, “he didn’t.”
“Have you heard—have you sent—”
“Yes. I sent George and Lafe. He wasn’t there.”
“But he had been there?”
“Yes. For a short spell last night. Then he took a canoe and started up river.”
Dee’s lips closed on her dismay. Her mother went on with the brisk air in which she always cloaked concern, “There’s something else that Pig’s Eye told the boys. The talk in his shanty last night was all of the Boles’ returning. ‘Twas that upset our Narcisse. I have not spoken of it to your father or Amable. They’re so busy to-day. But I thought perhaps you and the boys had best take a canoe—”
“Yes,” said Dee. “I’ll hurry.”
While she dressed, her mother called George and Lafe and packed them a lunch of meat and bread. Without disturbing the oldsters in the woods, the three ran down the bluff. They pushed off in the cottonwood dugout and turned its nose upstream.
The river was still high and the current strong. The water was littered with the branches of trees and even heavier timbers. But the boys bent to their task with all the resolution of fifteen and sixteen on an important errand. Their bare feet were braced, their freckled faces set, their stocky young bodies moved together. Dee held her own with them, telling herself as she stroked, “There’s nothing more that can happen to him now. His license has been taken away.”
They went past their old home. None of them looked that way. They sent their clumsy craft steadily ahead, even when the morning warmed and sunshine spread over the river and it would have been pleasant to linger. All the way up they looked for Narcisse’s canoe to pass them, homeward bound, but except for a boatload of soldiers just below the Entry, they had the Mississippi to themselves.
When they reached the fort landing, Dee told the boys to go for Hypolite. She would walk up to the fort, and they would meet at the landing. She did not know where she would go to ask for news of Narcisse. Half way up the hill, however, news met her.
Lieutenant Mountjoy, descending on a horse, saw her and dismounted. “I was on my way to find you,” he said hurriedly. “What are you doing here?”
“I’m looking for Narcisse,” said Dee.
“Well—let me take you home. And don’t say to anyone we meet that you are looking for Narcisse.”
“But I am looking for Narcisse,” said Dee. “What do you mean, Lieutenant?”
She looked at him directly, but he would not meet her eyes. His high color deepened. After a moment he said in a low voice, “Major Boles’ little boy was stolen last night.”
Dee took hold of Lieutenant Mountjoy’s sleeve. She was much ashamed of her sudden faintness. But had she known how much her gesture helped him, she would have felt no chagrin. Tenderness came into his eyes, and he went on gently.
“The cry of Indian was raised, but everyone knows the Indians have no quarrel with Boles. And the cry of squatters was raised, but Boles had nothing to do with tearing down the cabins. And it was plain what the commandant thought; he sent a squad of soldiers down to Pig’s Eye for Narcisse. And what Page thought.” He winced over the name.
“M’sieu Page?” asked Dee.
“He started for Lac Qui Parle with six men paddling. He didn’t even wait to hear whether Narcisse was at home. Hypolite told him, perhaps.”
Dee had the feeling of coming out of darkness, all that had happened was suddenly so clear. Yes, M’sieu Page was right. Narcisse would take the child to his own band of Sioux near Lac Qui Parle. But M’sieu Page was wrong if he thought he could get the child. His Indians would not betray Narcisse. Narcisse had a secret kinship with them; not because his blood was mixed with theirs; he had some mystic hold upon them that even Walking Wind could not break.
Narcisse had planned last night to run off to Indian country. Dee saw that now. He had not meant to take the boy, of course. Pig’s Eye’s whiskey had suggested that, after the trip was under way. But having the child would release, she knew, a mad defiance. He would feel he had nothing more to lose and nothing further to fear. Even if M’sieu Page could reach him, there was little he could do. Narcisse would not yield to ordinary persuasions.
But he would yield to her persuasions. Holding to Lieutenant Mountjoy’s sleeve, Dee saw that she must go. She lifted a set face.
“I’d better go myself, Lieutenant Mountjoy,” she said. “George and Lafe are here, and they will go with me. But there’s no time to go back to Pig’s Eye for supplies. I wonder if you would help me? We don’t need much. Blankets, a rifle, a very little food, for the boys are good hunters and there’s so much game about.”
Lieutenant Mountjoy did not answer for a moment. His eyes as they looked down at Dee had a soft brightness which said, “I am able to help you, I am really able to help you!” But he did not say that aloud. He said briskly, “Of course I will. You go back to your canoe and paddle up to Land’s End. I’ll meet you there with everything you need.”
Her drawn face relaxed a little, and Curly Mountjoy smiled. He bent swiftly over her hand. Then he jumped on his horse and swung his cocked hat before he replaced it on his wavy hair.
XIII
LAC QUI PARLE is a widening of that river once called the St. Peters. It comes while the stream still winds through prairie country, south and east. After it enters woodland, it makes a great bend. It is there that the Blue Earth joins it. Then it flows north and east down to Fort Snelling and into the Mississippi.
Lac Qui Parle is a lovely bay. It presents the aspect of a lake, just as the battlemented Pepin does in the more illustrious Mississippi. But where Pepin is enclosed by lofty bluffs and cliffs so steep that even cedars take precarious hold, Lac Qui Parle is bordered by low flat rocks as though it were a garden pond. These rocks crop out like islands in the lake; they spring from the prairie all around, wearing in the sunshine a pinkish hue and valued because there are no trees. Trees appear near the water, however. They crowd to the brim like thirsty nymphs. Willows, cottonwoods, elms, soft maples, bend to the Lake Which Speaks.
Upon these shores some Wahpeton Sioux, called the People of the Leaves, used to erect their movable villages.
One village stood near the lower end of the lake under the protection of Renville’s trading post. Fort Renville, it was called, a stockaded enclosure below a height of land from which many miles of country could be seen. This was civilization’s most westerly toehold. Gallant explorers used to seek it. They came to Fort Snelling and hired a trusty crew to make the ascent of the river. Gaining Fort Renville’s semi-barbarous calm, they used to climb the hill and look out to the west and examine their sensations and write them down in full for the London papers.
They did not fail to include an account of their host. He was a character, old Renville; son of de Rainville, an adventurous Frenchman of aristocratic birth, a Frenchman who, with almost unmatched interest in his son by an Indian woman, had sent the child to a priest in Canada to learn the French tongue and the Catholic religion.
He learned them but fragmentarily, however. Renville was more Indian than French, a square dark man with a sober face, albeit with Gallic manners. Returning to the Sioux, he took an Indian wife—he married her by Christian rites. He traded for furs, and fought for the British in the War of 1812. Eventually he became an American. He settled down then at Lac Qui Parle. Already a power among his mother’s people, he lived like some Arabian prince. His horses, sheep and cattle had endless pasturage. They could graze to the Missouri if he wished. His boats and charettes went laden with robes and furs and returned with all needed supplies. Forty Sioux braves comprised his body guard. Indian and half breed kin, dependents and employees and ever welcome guests made up his numerous household. The missionaries came and carried on their work under his benign protection.
He was a Catholic and they were Protestants, but Renville did not see that that mattered. They worked together through the long winters, translating the Gospels of Mark and John into the Dakota tongue. They sat in the great raftered room of the fort. The forty Sioux braves, naked and painted and smeared with vermilion, sat on benches around the wall and smoked their pipes and listened. The good Dr. Williamson took upon his knee the big family Bible of the Renvilles. This was in French, of course. Line by line he read it aloud, and his host said it after him in Dakota, and Gideon Pond, with glowing face, wrote it down in that alphabet which he and his brother had fashioned.
