HOME AND JULIE BRETON
That night Marcel camped at the river's mouth and watched the gray
waters of the great Bay drown the sinking sun. Somewhere, far down the
bold East Coast the Great Whale emptied into the salt "Big Water" of the
Crees. He remembered having heard the old men at the post say that the
Big Salmon lay four "sleeps" of fair weather to the north--four days of
hard paddling, as the Company canoes travel, if the sea was flat and the
wind light. But if he were wind-bound, as was likely heading south in
the spring, it might take weeks. He had a hundred pounds of cured fish
and could wait out the wind, but the thought of Julie, who by this time
must have learned from his partners of his mad journey, made Jean
anxious to reach the post. He preferred to be welcomed living than
mourned as dead. He wondered how deeply she would feel it--his death.
Ah, if she only cared for him as he loved her! Well, she should love him
in time, when he had become a _voyageur_ of the Company, with a house at
the post, he told himself, as he patted his shy puppy before turning
into his blankets.
The second day out he was driven ashore under gray cliffs by a
south-wester and spent the succeeding three days in overcoming the
shyness of the hulking puppy, who, in the gentleness of the new master,
found swift solace for the loss of her shaggy kinsmen of the Husky camp.
Already she had learned that the human hand could caress as well as
wield a stick, and for the first time in her short existence, was
initiated into the mystery and delight of having her ears rubbed and
back scratched by this master who did not kick her out of the way when
she sprawled in his path. And because of her beauty, and in memory of
Fleur Marcel, the mother he had loved, he named her Fleur.
When the sea flattened out after the blow, Marcel launched his canoe,
and, with his dog in the bow, continued south. Not a wheeling gull,
flock of whistling yellow-legs, or whiskered face of inquisitive seal,
thrust from the water only as quickly to disappear, escaped the notice
of the eager puppy. Passing low islands where teal and pin-tail rose in
clouds at his approach, driving Fleur into a frenzy of excitement, at
last he turned in behind a long island paralleling the coast.
For two days Jean travelled down the strait in the lee of this island
and knew when he passed out into open water and saw in the distance the
familiar coast of the Whale River mouth, that he had travelled through
the mystic Manitounuk, the Esquimos' Strait of the Spirit. The following
afternoon off Sable Point he entered the clear water of the Great Whale
and once again, after ten months' absence, saw on the bold shore in the
distance the roofs of Whale River.
There was a lump in the throat of Jean Marcel as he gazed at the distant
fur-post. That little settlement, with its log trade-house and church of
the Oblat Fathers, the last outpost of the Great Company on the bleak
East Coast, which for two centuries had defied the grim north, stood for
all he held most dear--was home. There, in the church burial ground
enclosed by a slab fence, three spruce crosses marked the graves of his
father, mother and brother. There in the Mission House, built by Cree
converts, lived Julie Breton.
As the young flood swept him up-stream he wondered if already he had
been counted as lost by his friends at the post--for it was July;
whether the thoughts of Julie Breton sometimes wandered north to the lad
who had disappeared into the Ungava hills on a mad quest; or if, with
the others, she had given him up as starved or drowned--numbered him
with that fated legion who had gone out into the wide north never to
return.
Nearing the post, the canoe began to pass the floats of gill-nets set
for whitefish and salmon. He could now see the tepees of the Whale
River Crees, dotting the high shores, and below, along the beach, the
squat skin lodges of the Huskies, with their fish scaffolds and umiaks.
The spring trade was on.
Beaching his canoe at the Company landing, where he was welcomed as one
returned from the dead by two post Crees, Marcel, leading his dog by a
rawhide thong, sought the Mission House.
At his knock the door was opened by a girl with dusky eyes and masses of
black hair, who stared in amazement at the _voyageur_.
"Julie!" he cried.
Then she found her voice, while the blood flushed her olive skin.
"Jean Marcel! _vous etes revenu!_ You have come back!" exclaimed the
girl, continuing the conversation in French.
"Oh, Jean! We had great fear you might not return." He was holding both
her hands but, embarrassed, she did not meet his eager eyes seeking to
read her thoughts.
"Come in, _M'sieu le voyageur_!" and she led him gayly into the Mission.
"Henri, Pere Henri!" she called. "Jean Marcel has returned from the
dead!"
"Jean, my son!" replied a deep voice, and Pere Breton was vigorously
embracing the man he had thought never to see again.
"Father, your greeting is somewhat warmer than that of Julie," laughed
the happy youth, as the bearded priest surveyed him at arm's length.
"Ah, she has spoken much of you, Jean, this spring. None the worse for
the long voyage, my son?" he continued. "You will be the talk of Whale
River; the Crees said you could not get through. And you got your dogs?
We have only curs here, except those of the Huskies, and they are very
dear."
"The Huskies would not sell their dogs, Father. They were bringing them
to Whale River."
Then Marcel sketched briefly to his wondering friends the history of his
wanderings and his meeting with the Huskies on the Big Salmon.
As he finished the tale of his escape from the camp with his puppy, and
later from the ambush, Julie Breton's dark eyes were wet with tears.
"Oh, Jean Marcel, why did you take such risks? You might have
starved--they might have killed you!"
His eyes lighted with tenderness as they met the girl's questioning
face.
"I had to have dogs, Julie. I must save my credit with the Company. It
was the only way."
"Let me see your puppy! Where is she?" demanded the girl.
Jean led his friends outside the Mission, where he had fastened his
dog. The wild puppy shrank from the strangers, the hair bristling on her
neck, as Julie impulsively thrust a hand toward the dog's handsome head.
"Oh, but she is cross!" she exclaimed. "What is her name?"
"Fleur; it was my mother's."
"Too nice a name for such an impolite dog!"
Jean stroked Fleur's head as she crouched against his legs muttering her
dislike of strangers. At his caress, her warm tongue sought his hand.
"There," he said proudly, his white teeth flashing in a grin at Julie,
"you see here is one who loves Jean Marcel."
At the invitation of Pere Breton, the _voyageur_ shut his dog in the
Mission stockade, where she would be free from attack by the post
Huskies and safe from some covetous Cree, and gladly took possession of
an empty room in the building.