CORRIGAL DRIVES HIS MEN
Before Donald had been gone an hour all Fort Bruce was buzzing with
the possible reasons for his sudden departure. In "Bachelors' Hall"
post managers and apprentice clerks spoke of it in subdued tones. They
realized that the subject touched their own problems very closely, that
it was an indication of what they might expect from this new, cold,
driving, ruthless superior who had come to take the place of kindly,
understanding old Duncan Mactavish.
Nicol MacKar knew Corrigal had sent for Donald and that immediately
after the interview the young man had made his preparations for
departure, and because Nicol himself had never made a conspicuous
success as a post manager he related what he had seen with more or less
perturbation.
"Good Lord!" Sandy Hay of Kenogami exclaimed. "If he's riding Donald,
what can the rest of us expect? The only thing that makes me feel at
all safe is the fact that there is no opposition at Kenogami."
"There is no reason to fear Corrigal," Millington declared confidently.
"You'll like him after you get to know him. As I told you when I saw
him coming, there's just one thing he asks, 'Get the fur.'"
"If Donald Norton can't get it, no one in the district can," Sandy
retorted.
"Perhaps," Millington agreed indifferently. Then he added slowly, "And
perhaps he's blown up."
Sandy glanced quickly at the young Englishman. He had sensed this
antagonism long before and because he was a fur trader and accustomed
both to see and to feel, several significant episodes had not escaped
him that summer.
"Be careful that when he does blow up it isn't under you," he warned.
"And Corrigal will discover there's dynamite in that lad, too. I'll
back Donald."
Millington grinned and Sandy added significantly: "In anything."
It chanced that Millington had called at the Layard home the previous
afternoon before Evelyn had recovered from her trying interview with
Donald and he had made a very shrewd guess as to what had happened. He
knew, too, what the memory of such a blow as Donald had received would
do during a long, lonely, brooding winter. He felt that he had cleverly
pulled the props from under Donald's dreams.
"Don't risk any money, Sandy," he advised.
"Corrigal's a fool!" Sandy snapped.
"He's not a sentimentalist," Millington answered as he walked out.
"Remember what I told you. There wasn't a half-breed post manager in
the Saskatchewan district."
"You know, if it weren't for little things like that I'd never remember
that Donald has an Indian mother," drawled Harry Milner of Lynx Head
Falls post.
"Yes, and Millington's the only one who ever does remember it," Sandy
growled.
An apprentice clerk appeared in the doorway and surveyed the assembled
post managers with an impish grin.
"Mr. John Corrigal, lord high ruler of Fort Bruce and its people," he
began with exaggerated formality, "has commanded the presence of----"
He stopped and began to search through a bundle of papers, casting sly,
delighted glances at the perturbed group before him.
"The presence of----"
"Out with it, you brat!" Sandy shouted. "Who does he want now?"
"Mr. Alexander Hay, immediately, in the throne room."
The others laughed as Sandy started to his feet.
"I'll get your things packed so you won't lose any time," Harry Milner
offered.
"And I'll look up your canoemen for you," Nicol MacKar added.
It was thus that the subject of Donald's departure received a general
application and Donald himself only brief consideration in the minds of
the other post managers. No one else was hurried away, but men who had
pursued the old ways for a lifetime suddenly found themselves face to
face with a new situation, under the sway of a man who thought only of
fur.
So long as they remained at Fort Bruce Corrigal spent every available
minute helping them plan the winter's campaign and inciting them to
increased effort. They departed for the long months alone with the
feeling that they were being driven, not led, and they missed the
kindly, understanding spirit of Duncan Mactavish--that sympathy which
lonely men should have if they are to remain loyal.
It was this that drove Donald from their minds, robbed him of their
compassion. Merton Layard alone retained a feeling of resentment which
grew until it finally drove him to expression.
"Look here, John," he burst forth one day in the district manager's
office, "you're making a big mistake with Donald Norton."
"Mistake?" Corrigal repeated coldly.
"Of course it's a mistake. If you'd taken the trouble to inquire, or
look over the records, you'd have seen he's the best fur buyer in this
district. What sort of work do you think he's going to do when you send
him out as you did?"
"I expect he's going to show himself to be exactly what he is--a
half-breed."
"That's all rot. There's nothing of the half-breed in him."
"His mother's a squaw and that's enough for me."
"Then all I've got to say is that you're acting like a bigoted fool."
Corrigal started from his chair but before he could speak Merton rushed
on.
"I don't know what's happened to you. We were apprentice clerks
together. You were a warm-hearted, altogether likable chap. Everyone
was your friend. Now you turn up here as hard and cold as ice. I don't
know whether it's a pose or what, but I'm going to tell you now that
you've a fair start toward wrecking this district."
"That's enough, Layard," Corrigal interrupted harshly. "So long as I'm
head of this district I'm responsible to the company alone and I choose
my own course. You and the rest of the men may as well understand now
that this sentimental rubbish doesn't go. Nothing counts but results."
"Exactly!" Merton exclaimed. "And you'll learn that without sentiment
you can't succeed. You ought to know it. You've been with the company
long enough. The trouble with you is that something's died in you."
Corrigal was leaning across his desk, tense with anger, but with the
last words he suddenly sank back and there was a flash of pain in his
eyes.
Merton knew what it meant. He knew this man had tried to drown his
sorrow in work, that ever since the death of his wife and son he had
submerged himself in the ceaseless combing of a huge kingdom for pelts.
All fur land knew Corrigal's story. After tragedy had wiped his life
clean of all other interests, he had consecrated himself to the great
company, living it, breathing it, becoming the Hudson's Bay itself, yet
far more impersonal and coldly efficient than the great organization he
served.
Though more than fifty years old the onerous life of the winter trails
held no terrors for him. He traveled constantly, supervising the work
of his managers, devising new ways to rout the opposition and always,
in his office, in distant posts, at a lowly hunter's wigwam, thinking,
thinking of nothing but fur.
Layard knew all this but his own anger was great.
"Don't you suppose the men in this district understand?" he demanded.
"They're truly loyal to the company. You think you are, but they don't
think so. They sense something else in you, sense that you've made a
heartless machine of yourself, and they know Donald is a victim of
prejudice and of nothing else."
"Now that we're back to the point of the discussion," Corrigal said
coldly, "I'll tell you exactly why I acted as I did with Norton. The
Fort James fur receipts were dropping. He admitted to me that someone
raided his territory on the western side and that he did nothing to
stop it."
"I won't believe that of him."
"No? And who is on the western side, in a position to do it, and who
would he permit to operate unopposed? No one but that squaw man friend
of his, Collinge."
Though he did not believe this, Layard was too astonished to protest.
"Let me tell you something," Corrigal continued. "I have no prejudice
against Norton, no animosity. But I do know, after years of observation
of the half-breed, that sometime, in some crisis, the red blood will
predominate. I'm not alone in this. The company feels it and so long as
I'm in charge of this district the interests of the Hudson's Bay will
not be jeopardized because of sentiment.
"But I've given Norton his chance--another year to make good, though I
haven't much hope. There's always a breaking point with a half-breed.
A top, no matter how fast it may spin, ultimately will topple. In
Norton's actions I have found a characteristic wobbling."
Layard was silent for a moment. He couldn't understand, couldn't
imagine Donald letting anyone get fur from the company, but his faith
rallied.
"I don't know what's been happening at Fort James," he said at
last, "but I do know Donald and that such a thing as you suspect is
impossible. But if you're as impersonal as you claim, you'll give him a
chance to prove you're wrong." With this he stalked out of Corrigal's
office.
Layard did not talk to Corrigal on the subject again. He determined to
wait until the next summer when Donald returned and then warn him of
Corrigal's attitude.
Meanwhile the district manager was waiting impatiently for the first
ice. Early in January he arrived unexpectedly at Whitefish Lake but
Millington, knowing his habits, was ready for him. Books, monthly
statements, the trade shop, everything was in excellent shape.
Millington was a clever fur trader. In the fall he had engineered a
coup which had caught Philip Collinge napping and he was exuberant over
the prospects of a record winter.
Corrigal remained only a day. He had confidence in Millington's ability
and a quick survey told him that everything was going well. The morning
of his departure he went to the trade shop, where Millington had gone
to see a hunter. As he waited for his half-breed drivers to bring the
dog teams to the door, Nee-tah-wee-gan entered.
The district manager was leaning against the counter studying the
shelves and gave her scant attention. She was just an old Indian woman,
thin, bent, apparently feeble. Her head was wrapped in a shawl that
half hid her face.
But Millington, glancing up from the fur he was grading, was held by
the light in her eyes. He knew she was venomous and he had often teased
her into outbursts of rage but never had he seen such hatred blaze from
human eyes as she now directed at the back of the unconscious district
manager. It fascinated him, but his quick mind was instantly alert.
Then he heard the tinkling of dog bells and the shouts of drivers and
Corrigal thrust out his hand.
"Good-by," he said. "I want to get to Fort James as quickly as
possible. Don't know whether I'll be back this winter or not."
Millington leaped over the counter and followed him outside.
"Did you see that old woman in the shop?" he asked, as he helped tuck
the robes about his superior in the gaudily decorated cariole.
"Didn't notice her. Why?"
"She's Norton's mother."
"Oh, yes. Still lives here, eh?"
"Seven years now. I don't know why she didn't go on to Fort James with
him."
"Are her rations still charged to his account?"
"Of course."
Corrigal nodded to the drivers, they cried "march-on!" and the two
teams dashed down to the ice.
Millington watched them for a moment and then turned back to the
trade shop. Directly in front of him, looking out of a window, was
Nee-tah-wee-gan. But she did not seem to see him. Her eyes were turned
toward the departing dog teams and Millington shivered in the light of
the hatred they expressed.
He went on into the store. The hunter had gone outside to witness
in awed silence the departure of the supreme ruler of his world.
Nee-tah-wee-gan had not moved from the window.
"You don't seem to like the new chief," Millington said in Ojibwa.
"It is John Corrigal?" she demanded in a low voice.
"Yes, John Corrigal. He is a great man."
Nee-tah-wee-gan made a frightful grimace and turned again to the
window. Millington, always quick to gather impressions, looked at her
sharply. Just then the door opened and the hunter entered. The trader
waved him out with a frown and the door closed again.
"You knew Corrigal when he was at Fort James," Millington said.
Nee-tah-wee-gan did not indicate that she had heard.
"Perhaps you knew him at Fort Bruce, too," he continued, suddenly
recalling idle gossip he had heard several years before.
Again she ignored him.
"Corrigal is a great chief," he said. "He has been a great chief in the
company for many years. But he does not sit at Fort Bruce. All the time
he is on the trails, visiting the posts. Now he is going to Fort James."
Nee-tah-wee-gan wheeled toward him and the venomous light no longer
shone in her eyes. For the first time Millington saw them bright with
joy but with a joy more diabolical than her hate had ever been.
"Now?" she demanded. "He goes to Fort James?"
She did not wait for his affirmation but burst into a peal of laughter
that chilled him.
"It has come!" she shrieked. "It has come! For thirty years I have
waited for that--for that and the rest that will follow."
Again she laughed, beating her thin, hollow chest as she did so,
laughed until Millington, awed by her outburst, shivered and drew back.
"Tell me," Nee-tah-wee-gan demanded, "is it true what the hunters said
when they came with the brigade, what your canoemen told us, that the
'big trader,' this new one, this John Corrigal, wants only white men to
run his posts? Is it true that he does not trust an Indian?"
Millington nodded and again the woman burst into laughter. For a moment
she swayed back and forth and then as if weakened by the excess of her
diabolical mirth she sank to a heap on the floor. Millington, appalled
by her actions, watched her in silence.
At last she looked up. Her laughter had ceased but her eyes were still
bright with the fiendish joy.
"Then he will not have Wen-dah-ban run a post for him," she said. "He
will hear Wen-dah-ban is the son of me, an Indian woman, and he will
not want him. He will scorn him. He will tell him he is an Indian
and no good. He will tell him to go back to his own people where he
belongs."
She stopped, her eyes glowing, her body suddenly rigid, her bony hands
clenched before her.
Millington leaned forward eagerly.
"Do you want Corrigal to drive him back to a wigwam?" he whispered.
Nee-tah-wee-gan, still staring, did not seem to hear.
"The 'big trader' will do that?" she cried suddenly. "He will do that
to Wen-dah-ban, _to his own son_!"