DONALD LOSES A FRIEND
Philip Collinge had begun another attempt to teach his two sons to read
and write English. Patiently and determinedly, he was working with them
one evening when Donald burst in upon him.
"What's happened to you?" Philip demanded after the first excited
greetings and he had drawn away to look at his friend.
"Happened?" Donald repeated. "Nothing. Why?"
Philip accepted his friend's unconscious evasion. There was no need to
press the question. Gossip travels strangely swift trails in fur land
and he knew the Layards had been shifted to Fort Bruce and that Janet
had returned from England, a radiant star in the dreary sky of the
north.
Though weary and hopeless, his own shattered existence permitting
only a cynical interest in the affairs of others, Philip always found
an exception in Donald. The pleasure he had derived from the youth's
development was real, his affection was great, and now he knew, as
clearly as though he had been told, what Janet's presence had done to
his friend.
It had sickened him, aroused a fierce passion of protest, for he
glimpsed the sorrow Donald was building for himself. Yet he knew he
could not even hint at such a possibility, could do nothing to save his
friend.
"But what are you doing here?" he asked. "It's so late in the season I
didn't expect you to come around this way."
"I did stay at Fort Bruce quite a while," Donald answered, "but this is
only fifty miles off the route and I've promised the canoemen a bonus
if they would hurry things so that I could get a day with you. But what
do you mean by asking what has happened to me?"
"I fancy it's just success," Philip drawled. "I must say, though, that
I don't like your successor here."
"What has Millington been doing?" asked Donald.
"Oh, he's getting into me about as you did. He's under my guard all the
time. Knows fur and all that and yet somehow I can't like him, or trust
him. I admire an out-and-out blighter but I hate a crooked bounder."
"I know how you feel," Donald said, "but I wouldn't let it worry me."
"Yes, I dare say he'll come a cropper of his own making some day."
After his arrival at Fort James, Donald began to comprehend a little of
what Philip had meant when he asked, "What's happened to you?" Only the
separation and the loneliness were needed to make him understand how
necessary Janet was to him and through long, bewildered hours he went
back over the time he had spent with her, trying to determine how much
of her warm interest had been for the boy with whom she had played at
Kenogami and how much for the man he had become. Even the letter which
came in the mid-winter packet did not assure him. He read it again
and again, trying to find some confirmation of his hopes, some phrase
or suggestion upon which he could hang a golden dream. Then something
happened that jerked him out of his reveries. His best tripper came in
from the western side of the Fort James domain with only a few pelts on
his toboggan.
"The fur she gone!" the man reported excitedly. "And it not the
Keewatin Company."
"Gone!" Donald repeated. "Who got it?"
"The hunters they not talk. They say they sick and not hunt or the fur
is scarce but me see the trade goods in their camps, new things, and
they not Keewatin trade goods. They Hudson's Bay goods."
Donald comprehended instantly that Millington was sending a tripper out
of his own territory, was buying fur from Fort James hunters, but his
indignation was short lived. It was an affront and it was a means taken
to discredit him as a post manager, yet Donald laughed exultantly, for
he saw that the Englishman considered him a rival and one so strong he
must be fought.
Feuds between managers of adjacent posts had occurred in the past
and sometimes they had developed into warfare almost as open as that
between the Hudson's Bay and free traders. Always they had been a
product of that strange, distorted life which servants of the company
must lead. A post manager may easily gain a false impression of his own
importance and dignity, may resent fancied wrongs and break forth in
retaliation without heed to any harm the company might suffer.
Donald understood these psychological reactions but in Millington's
case he knew there was something different--that the man was waging a
personal campaign because he feared him as a rival.
His first thought was to make up his losses by similar raids on
Whitefish Lake territory and he was eager for the success he knew he
could attain. But a day's reflection brought abandonment of this plan.
Not only did loyalty to the Hudson's Bay forbid but a high regard for
the good will of Duncan Mactavish withheld him.
Mactavish was the last of the old chief factors, a man whose life and
energies had been devoted to the great company for more than fifty
years, a warrior for pelts who had scorned a pension and final years of
ease in "the old country." He had remained at his post because he would
rather die fighting.
The Hudson's Bay service, with its isolations, its great power, its
sense of superiority fostered by an ancient prestige and by close
association with an inferior race, brings out the best and the worst in
men. It develops strangely contrasting virtues and weaknesses, opens
the way to petty meanness as well as beautiful fellowship, and no one
understood more thoroughly and with greater sympathy the distorting,
dwarfing and ennobling factors in a fur trader's life, and the
consequent mental and moral quirks, than old Duncan.
In Donald the district manager had recognized something more than an
efficient trader and in the years when he needed encouragement most
the old man's hand had gone out to the lonely boy. Now, no matter
what Millington might do, Donald saw that he could not impair that
friendship and trust, that he must keep his own hands clean, be true to
the childhood dream that had carried him out of the wigwam.
Yet he did not intend to remain passive in the struggle. He could still
guard against the raids, could set a trap for Millington, and in the
summer he could lay the facts before Mactavish, relying on a sense of
justice he had never found wanting.
But the long, lonely winter at Fort James had produced a far more
disturbing situation and when Donald started for Fort Bruce in the
summer it occupied his mind to the exclusion of all else. Without
Philip Collinge's companionship to keep his mind occupied and normal,
with new thoughts and desires and doubts drawing his attention from
books, he had become the victim of that soft, gripping, devastating
emotion which comes to all youth and which makes all men young. He
looked forward only to seeing Janet.
The journey itself was long and irritating and because Fort James was
one of the posts most distant from headquarters Donald was the last
of the post managers to arrive. When his canoe turned a point down
the lake and Fort Bruce came into sight the Indians suddenly ceased
paddling and broke into excited chatter. The flag on the tall pole was
at half-mast.
It might mean anything from the death of the King of England to that of
a post manager and Donald, who had not received news even from his own
world since the mid-winter packet, urged his canoemen to a last burst
of speed.
He found all Fort Bruce in mourning. Duncan Mactavish, last of the
chief factors, the spirit of the Hudson's Bay incarnate, was dead. For
the first time Donald experienced a real sorrow and in the sincerity
of his grief the possible consequences meant nothing. He was greeted
by his fellow post managers, was warmly welcomed by the Layards, but
the death of the man who had been the Hudson's Bay itself to an entire
district still hung heavily over the fur land capital. Everyone who had
known Duncan Mactavish had loved him.
Only in Janet's presence could Donald forget the grief that hung over
Fort Bruce. He had much leisure and spent many hours with her.
"You are not thinking of going back to England?" he asked the first
time they were alone together.
Despite her assurance in their farewell the previous summer the fear
had haunted him.
"No," the girl answered, "I can't. I staid away too long. I never
realized what I can do for father and mother. There is too much
loneliness in fur land."
"That is all that keeps you here?" he questioned boldly.
"It isn't just a sense of duty. I was born in a fur post. I've lived in
one all my life, except the six years I was away."
"But you've had a taste of the other sort of life."
"Not enough to wipe out first impressions. Nothing could after you have
known the north country."
"Even now it doesn't seem desolate to you?"
"Desolate isn't the word. It is bleak and it is raw and it is cruel
very often but there is a challenge in it, an eternal dare to one's
courage and strength and sanity."
"Yes, there is that, for men."
"Why not for women?" Janet demanded. "Don't you think we ever want
romance and adventure? But that isn't all I meant. It seems to me that
if one can survive the north he has proved something he could never
even understand in a softer country. It's so easy to do wrong here,
where men have so much power and so little supervision, so easy to be
weak."
"You're back to the men again."
"I'm not. You're only blind. They're talking in London of the new age
that is dawning for women but women don't change over night. They still
like to see their men prove themselves, still get a thrill in vicarious
adventure and conflict."
"I'm going out and stir up a mutiny among the Indians," Donald declared
with a laugh.
"How about the battle for pelts?" she asked with her quick smile. "To
me there has always been something thrilling in that. Think of it! A
ceaseless struggle waged through four thousand miles of wilderness!
Why, if I were a man I'd never want anything more than to be a servant
of the Hudson's Bay Company."
Donald found unexpected comfort and delight in her words, experiencing
the joy of a man who knows the woman he loves understands the glory
of his struggle, and the real Janet of that summer became far more
wonderful than the girl of his long winter dreams.
There were no conjectures now, no evasions, no perplexities. He
loved her, and so consuming was this new and entrancing emotion, so
heady this first draught of the wine of life, he failed to hide his
intoxication or to perceive that Janet, too, despite woman's inherent
guards and devices, was being swept into the same emotional whirl.
But Evelyn Layard was not unaware of what was happening. Perhaps
mothers are the first to recognize such situations because they await
them from the daughter's infancy. After much hesitation she spoke to
Merton.
"Have you noticed how much Janet and Donald are together?" she asked
with an attempt to be casual.
"I've noticed that they have a mighty good time," he answered.
"Janet's quick. She's bright, but Donald's a match for her. I'd rather
hear them talk than have ten copies of Punch."
He laid down his copy of the London Times and turned to face his wife.
"You know there isn't a keener sense of humor in the district than
Henry Milner's," he continued. "Yesterday he started an argument with
Janet on some theory or other she picked up in England. He pretended to
be serious but was really poking fun at her. Donald pitched in to help
her and Milner thought they were in earnest but they turned the tables
on him so neatly he threw up his hands and ran."
Evelyn let the matter rest there when she saw that Merton did not
suspect what was troubling her. She was not even sure that she was
troubled. She told herself she was glad and yet doubts came. They were
vague and she fought them back. She even despised herself when they
gained a sudden ascendency and in the reaction her attitude toward
Donald became warmer and more impulsive than ever.
Then one day Millington called, ostensibly to see Janet though he had
watched her leaving the dwelling house with Donald, and he remained to
talk to the mother. Quite skillfully, for he had learned the Layard
attitude the previous summer, he brought up the name of Nee-tah-wee-gan.
"Is she still at Whitefish Lake?" Evelyn asked.
"Yes, living on the rations her son supplies."
"It is strange she hasn't gone on to Fort James. She has always
followed Donald wherever he has been. It is a fearful thing, for she
seems to have devoted herself to making life unbearable for him. I am
glad he has been free of her for the last two years."
"I never knew a human being to be so filled with bitterness and
hatred," Millington said. "She seems hardly human. But, while Norton
has not had her with him, I don't see how he can escape the thought
that she is his mother. It must be a terrible load for a man to carry,
just that thought."
He had spoken with a sympathy evidently sincere and when Evelyn did not
comment he continued:
"Even if she were dead there would be the memory of her, a memory a man
could never shake off, for he not only knows it but all fur land does."
For several days Evelyn brooded and then growing fears drove her to
Merton.
"There isn't a finer chap in the north country than Donald!" he
protested.
"I know it," she answered. "I tell myself that constantly. I am ashamed
that I have any doubts."
"But why should you?"
"Oh, I'll admit all you say, and I feel responsible for Donald. We both
are."
"Yes, and he'd be in a wigwam to-day if we hadn't given him a chance."
"That's just it. I would suffer anything rather than hurt him. I cannot
be the one to drive his parentage home in such a way."
"Evelyn! You're working yourself up over nothing. There's no need----"
"But don't you see? There's Nee-tah-wee-gan. Think of that fearful old
thing being the grandmother of Janet's children!"
Merton was staggered. Evelyn could not have chosen words better suited
to arouse that age-old, instinctive aversion of the white man. He had
loved Donald as a son but he worshiped Janet and now there was unfolded
for him all the unconscious dreams of the parent for the daughter's
happiness.
"Damn Nee-tah-wee-gan!" he cried, and stormed out of the room.
Neither he nor Evelyn brought up the subject again that day, though
Janet and Donald spent much of the time together. The mother, sensitive
now to every clue, saw the daughter's heightened color and a new, happy
light in her eyes.
Presently there came an event that absorbed the attention of all Fort
Bruce. For some time everyone had been busy with conjectures as to
who would succeed Duncan Mactavish. That clannish spirit developed
among men who spend a lifetime in a common service was eager for the
selection of one from the district--Merton Layard's name was mentioned
most often--but still no word had come from Winnipeg.
Then one day black eyes were the first to see an approaching canoe and
to distinguish the chief factor's flag in the bow. In a moment all Fort
Bruce was aware that its new district manager had come.
The canoe moved swiftly. The paddlers, conscious that they were being
watched by several hundred pairs of eyes, put forth their best efforts
and the craft fairly leaped from the water with each stroke.
"It's the chief but why is he coming from that direction?" Nicol MacKar
demanded irritably.
"The Commissioner has gone outside the district," Sandy Hay of Kenogami
answered. "He's picked someone from York Factory."
"Those Indians are from the Saskatchewan or I never saw one paddle,"
Millington declared. "And that means the white man sitting in the
middle is John Corrigal."
"Corrigal!" MacKar repeated. "I haven't seen John since he left nearly
thirty years ago. He has been district manager out there, hasn't he?"
"Yes, and he's a whirlwind for fur," Millington said. "I ran a post in
the Saskatchewan country three years before coming here and if Corrigal
is to be in charge we'll see some changes."
"Changes!" MacKar repeated quickly, for he never had made a success of
any of the dozen posts he had operated in more than thirty years of
service.
"Knock out the opposition, get the fur, keep a post up to snuff, and
Corrigal's satisfied," Millington continued. "He's a fighter and he
loves a fighter. The only man who is liable to suffer is Norton."
"Norton!" Layard exclaimed. "Why Norton? There isn't a better post
manager in the district."
"If he were the best in all Canada it wouldn't make any difference,"
Millington replied. "Efficiency is a religion with Corrigal and he
thinks the red blood can't meet a crisis. In the three years I worked
for him there wasn't a man of mixed blood in a responsible position in
the whole Saskatchewan district."
MacKar, Layard and several others had been watching the approaching
canoe while Millington talked and the young Englishman alone caught a
glimpse of Donald as he joined the group. But he pretended not to see
and finished his statement. Then the canoe landed and they all walked
down the bank to greet the new district manager.
All that day John Corrigal was the center of interest at Fort Bruce. He
was busy greeting old friends, men with whom he had begun his service
for the Hudson's Bay nearly forty years before, and becoming acquainted
with the younger ones. He met Donald with the others and when he shook
hands his eyes were suddenly clouded as if from pain.
"Fort James, eh?" he said. "That was my last post in this district."
Donald knew he referred to the death of his wife but he was saved from
any embarrassment when Corrigal asked quickly:
"Is the opposition in there now?"
"Yes, the Keewatin Company."
"We'll have to get them out. Later I'll talk it over with you."
That evening he singled out Donald and continued the conversation. The
young man watched his new superior closely at first but found nothing
to substantiate what Millington had said on the lake shore and ascribed
it to the Englishman's scheme of persecution.
"Fort James is our biggest post," Corrigal began. "When I left the
district there had never been a free trader near it."
"The Keewatin Company started operations nine years ago," Donald told
him.
"Nine years, eh? And how long have you been there?"
"Two."
Corrigal drew out a pad and scribbled on it.
"I'll see you in the office at eight o'clock to-morrow morning," he
announced shortly. "We'll talk over the entire situation. The Keewatin
Company must go, Mr. Hay," and he turned to Sandy, "at nine in the
morning. My office. There should be another outpost at Kenogami.
Nothing like a strong outer defense to keep back the opposition. We've
got to keep the Kenogami record clear."
"The Keewatin Company got in there about ten years ago," Sandy laughed.
"In Kenogami! I thought----"
"Oh, they didn't stay long. Four months finished them, four months and
this lad," and he laid an arm across Donald's shoulders.
Corrigal wheeled upon Donald, a new light in his eyes.
"What's this? You? Knocked them out in four months? Ten years ago? How
old were you?"
"I was twenty. It was nine years ago. I was running the outpost at
Wabinosh."
"He'll never tell you," Sandy said when Donald paused. "But everyone in
the district knows it and has been using him as a pattern ever since."
He told the story, grown now but still fairly accurate, for Duncan
Mactavish had recounted it scores of times. Corrigal listened with
close attention and when Sandy finished he turned again to Donald. His
severe features had softened and his eyes, usually so hard and cold,
glowed warmly.
"That's it!" he exclaimed enthusiastically. "Drive 'em out! Get
the fur! It's what we're here for, what we've got to do. We'll get
together, young man, and do the same thing at Fort James."
That was the impression Fort Bruce formed of Corrigal. "Get the fur"
and "force out the opposition" were his watchwords. He was hard,
driving, ceaseless in his efforts, as unsparing of himself as of
others. He thawed only when, as upon listening to the story of Donald's
exploit at Wabinosh, he heard of fresh gains for the Hudson's Bay or a
defeat of the opposition.
From the moment of his arrival he had thrown himself into his work with
a determination that was almost savage. Nothing else mattered. Fur and
the gathering of fur, the stamping out of free traders, the prestige
and might of the great company, these were the only things that entered
his life.
All Fort Bruce was smiling in recollection of Corrigal's first
conversation with Nicol MacKar. They had been apprentice clerks
together at Fort Bruce, had come over on the same ship.
"Say, John," Nicol laughed after he had greeted his old friend, "do you
remember the time we were in the office here and switched the personal
requisitions of those two old fellows at Kenogami and Lynx Head Falls
and Alex Smith got the Bibles and tracts and the big box of marmalade
while the case of whisky went to Ben Hardisty?"
Corrigal stared at him blankly for a moment and then nodded absently.
"Yes," he said. "Where are you now, Nicol? Hungry Hall? Always was a
weak post. Queer sort of Indians. We've got to put some ginger into
them somehow. We'll talk that over right away."
But while Fort Bruce smiled at old Nicol's discomfiture it was a
crooked smile--twisted by apprehension--for twenty-four hours after his
arrival Corrigal's personality had been impressed upon everyone and the
effect was that of a blow. So long as anyone could remember, the spirit
of Duncan Mactavish had pervaded the district. The old man had been
hard but human. He had demanded but had always given. There had been
an inspiration in his fairness, in his deep understanding and in his
ability to forgive.
John Corrigal, though nearly fifty-five, was the new type of fur
trader, alert, aggressive, recognizing the changes that had come to
fur land and quick to adopt methods necessary to meet new conditions.
In him men found themselves confronting a stern, relentless nature, a
driving, compelling spirit. They sensed hardness and remorselessness
and began to fear a leader who would command and never give, whose
judgment would be merciless and as cold as an accountant's report.