The Truce of the Storm
Under the most favourable circumstances a northern trail in the
dead winter is a test of endurance. There is the stinging cold, the
weary tread hour after hour, up hill and down, with no prospect
of a hot supper waiting at the end of the day’s march. It is hard
and discouraging enough then, but how much more difficult when the
snow-shoes are merely rough, heavy makeshifts, the webs too loose to
support the feet in a proper manner, and the frames occasionally giving
way beneath the strain. In addition to all this and the weariness, to
have little to eat, and no comfortable resting place at night.
Such were the conditions under which the three wayfarers plodded slowly
onward the next day. North and Rolfe found it hard, but Marion a great
deal harder. The snow-shoes which had caused her so much pride seemed
like great clogs to her feet. She longed to throw them aside, but
that was out of the question. So wearily she struggled forward, doing
her best to keep up with the men, who were even then travelling at a
snail’s pace for her sake. The sergeant longed to help her, but as they
were moving in Indian file he could do little to assist. Several times
he tried to walk by her side, holding her arm and letting her lean on
him for support. But the snow was too deep, and each time he floundered
around on his wretched snow-shoes, and was always glad to get back on
the trail again.
That day they were able to make only a few miles, and camped early,
greatly fatigued. Once more little brush shelters were made, their meat
supper eaten, after which they gathered close to the fire for warmth.
The sergeant was anxious about Marion. She looked more weary than he
had ever seen her before. But she assured him that she was feeling
fine, only tired, that was all. In the morning she would be once more
ready for the trail.
“I have been trying Mr. Rolfe’s plan all day,” she said, “and have been
repeating verses which I learned years ago, especially old familiar
hymns. It was certainly a great help. I thought of what the Bishop of
the Yukon once told me. You remember how he and another man nearly lost
their lives in crossing the mountains from Fort McPherson. When they
were in terrible straits, not knowing where they were, worn to shadows,
and forced to eat their muck-lucks to keep life in their bodies, the
Bishop was greatly encouraged by the words of the hymn ‘Go labour on,
spend and be spent.’ You can add the Bishop’s testimony and mine, Mr.
Rolfe, to support your claim of the influence of poetry.”
“Indeed I shall, Miss Brisbane,” the constable declared. “When I go
outside, if I ever live to get there, I am going to give a lecture on
the influence of poetry. As examples, I shall relate the experiences of
you, the Bishop, and General Wolfe, as well as my own.”
“What about you, John?” Marion asked, turning to the sergeant, who was
seated by her side. “Haven’t you something to add to such imposing
witnesses?”
“I am afraid not,” was the quiet reply. “The only poetry I ever
learned was ‘God save the King,’ and but one verse of that.”
“Ugh! that isn’t poetry, sergeant,” Rolfe retorted. “That’s nothing but
doggerel.”
“It may be as you say, Tom, but there’s something in it, for all that,
which stirs the heart. The singing of that kept the spirit of loyalty
alive in this country, and sent hundreds of thousands of men overseas
during the Great War. It sent me, anyway, and brought me back again to
the north to serve the King when the war was over. You may read and
quote poetry all you like, Tom, but the finest poetry, to my way of
thinking, is found in worthy deeds of service. I can’t sing a note of
the National Anthem, and yet, perhaps, my work up here in trying to
carry out true British justice is worth something. I hope so, at any
rate.”
The constable was surprised at this outburst, for the sergeant was a
man of few words. He made no comment, however, but rose to his feet
and piled more wood upon the fire. What his thoughts were, he kept
to himself as he sat and watched the leaping flames and the sparks
dancing and circling up into the darkness. Marion and North sat upon
the opposite side near each other. Occasionally he glanced toward
them as they conversed together in low tones. A longing was entering
his own heart for the love and confidence of such a woman as Marion
Brisbane. Hitherto, he had thought little about it, being content with
his wandering life. But now he felt indescribably lonely. He seized a
stick and stirred the fire, which did not at all need stirring. Then
his pent-up feelings had to be given expression. He again rose to his
feet, and looking over at his companions began:
“’Tis sweet to hear the watch-dogs’ honest bark
Bay deep-mouthed welcome as we draw near home,
’Tis sweet to know an eye will mark our coming,
And grow brighter when we come.”
“Getting sentimental, Tom, eh?” the sergeant queried.
“Why shouldn’t I?” was the retort. “It’s catching, I guess.”
The night was a hard one. The men took turns keeping the fire going,
but they slept little, owing to the cold. Marion determined to take her
share in watching, and the men did not oppose her wish. But when at
last, through extreme weariness, she did fall asleep, North and Rolfe
took off their short heavy coats, and laid them over her body, the same
as they had done the night before. Upon waking, she had chided them for
doing such a thing, and told them that they must not again run any risk
for her sake. The men had merely smiled, and remained silent.
In the morning Marion felt very stiff and sore from the unaccustomed
exertions of the previous day. She said nothing, however, as they
started once more upon the trail. But she could not deceive the
sergeant, and he felt greatly worried. He knew that she could not
travel far that day, only a few miles at the most. Something had to be
done, and he turned over in his mind the best course to pursue. For a
time he could not decide, but when Rolfe began to limp painfully, owing
to an attack of snow-shoe cramp, he hesitated no longer.
“Look here,” he began, “we shall never reach The Gap at the pace we are
going, and now that Tom is knocked out, matters are worse than ever.
You two must camp here while I go for assistance. I can reach The Gap
before night, round up a team of dogs and come back early to-morrow.”
Marion’s face turned pale at the suggestion, although she said nothing.
Rolfe knew that the sergeant was right, although he felt badly at being
forced to give up.
“‘Farewell! a long farewell to all my greatness!’” he quoted.
“‘This is the state of man----’”
“Never mind about your greatness,” the sergeant interrupted. “We know
all about that, and also your state at the present time. Get to work
at once and build as good a shelter as you can. There’s a fine clump
of trees right over there,” and he motioned to the left. “I’m sorry I
can’t help you.”
He then turned to Marion, who was standing silently near.
“Tom will look after you,” he told her. “Except for his poetry, he is
all right. He needs to be brought back to earth occasionally, that’s
all.”
He then stooped and kissed her. For a few seconds she clung to him, and
there were tears in her eyes.
“Take care of yourself, John,” she said, “I am sorry to give you so
much trouble. But for me, you both would be at The Gap by this time.
But, there, I must not detain you any longer.”
Hour after hour North moved on his way, up hill and down, through
thick woods and across barren regions. He was greatly hampered by his
miserable snow-shoes. They lacked the spring and buoyancy of the ones
he had lost. Often they clogged with snow, and he could not tell at
what minute they might go to pieces. He was forced to use the greatest
care as he well knew how much depended upon his getting to The Gap
for assistance. Should anything happen to him, then Marion and the
constable would both perish.
For some time he had been anxiously watching the sky, which was a dull
leaden color. He knew that a storm was not far away, and already the
wind was wailing among the trees. He hoped to outrace it, and if he
could cross a bad desolate tract of burnt land which he knew was ahead
before the tempest burst, he would feel quite secure. A storm in the
mountains was a thing to be dreaded. The weather had been fine of late,
exceptionally so, but he knew that it could not continue. The storm was
overdue, and when it did come, it was likely to be a most furious one.
Ere long fine particles of snow filled the air, and flecked his body.
They soon grew thicker, and by the time he had reached the edge of the
burnt region the storm was most menacing. He looked anxiously out into
the open where the snow, driven by the now unimpeded wind, resembled
the levelled lances of thousands of mystic legions of the north. To
go back he must not. His only course was forward, with the hope that
he might reach the opposite side before the trail became completely
obliterated.
Removing a mass of snow from his snow-shoes, and drawing his cap more
firmly about his face, North left the shelter of the forest and plunged
out into the driving storm. With head bent, and eyes fixed upon the
rapidly disappearing trail, he pressed steadily forward. It was a
hard struggle, and the cold was intense, piercing his body. At length
his progress became slower. His feet would slip provokingly off the
snow-shoes, and at times he found himself floundering around in the
deep snow, and only regaining the trail with considerable difficulty.
Often, too, he was forced to pause for breath, and to beat his hands
together in order to get some warmth into his numbed fingers. He
realised the seriousness of his situation, but he was determined not to
give up. He must reach the forest beyond. Marion’s life depended upon
his efforts, and he must not fail her. Again he struggled back upon the
trail from which he had wandered. Once more he peered keenly ahead,
hoping to catch sight of the friendly trees. But everything was blotted
from view, and his eyes ached from the lashing of the cruel snow.
At length he felt that he could go no farther. He was becoming
bewildered. The roar of the wind sounded like a demon hurling itself
upon him. He groped for the trail like a blind man. He was almost
waist-deep in the snow, and the snow-shoes were off his feet. His
body was becoming numb. But he would not give up. He would fight the
monster, and win out. With another frantic effort he threw himself
forward, his hands reaching out. Then he lifted up his voice in one
great cry of despair, the first that had ever come from his lips in all
his years of service in the Force.
And as he stood there, his face turned appealingly toward the forest,
the form of a man bending to the wind suddenly hove in sight. So
unexpected was this appearance that the sergeant gave a gasp of
surprise. The man seemed more than human as he advanced with long
strides. The storm whipping his great body appeared not to impede him
in the least. He was about to pass when North hailed him.
“Help! help!” he cried.
The traveller stopped short, swung quickly around, rubbed the snow from
his eyes, and peered keenly in the direction from which the sound had
come. Instantly North recognised Hugo, the trapper, and unconsciously
his numbed right hand groped for his revolver. Hugo, too, recognised
the sergeant, and noticing the movement of his hand, he gave a roar of
warning.
“Drop that,” he ordered. “Heavens! man, are you crazy? This is no time
or place to pull a gun. What could you do against me? I guess you’d
better wait. What’s wrong, anyway?”
“I’m all in,” was the reply.
“H’m, you look it,” Hugo growled, as he stepped closer. “All in but
your spirit, eh? Man, I like your pluck. Here, take my hand, and I’ll
lift you out of that hole.”
In another minute North was standing upon the trail, and then the two
men faced each other. The wind swirled the snow in furious gusts about
their bodies, at times almost hiding each other from view. North was
the first to speak.
“You are my prisoner,” he said. “I order you to surrender.”
Hugo’s only reply was to throw back his head, and emit a roar of
laughter.
“Do you think I am joking?” the sergeant sternly asked. “I am on duty,
remember, so your best plan is to obey.”
“Surrender! what am I to surrender, man? I’m here, but what are you
going to do with me? From all appearances you had better surrender to
me, and let me get you out of this. Let us stop this fooling and settle
down to business.”
“And you won’t fight?” North asked in surprise.
Hugo reached out, laid a heavy hand upon the sergeant’s shoulder, and
shook him.
“Wake up,” he ordered. “What’s the matter with you? Do you realize
where you are? Fight! I’m not going to fight a half-crazed man.”
The rough shake and the plain words brought North to his senses. He
looked around for an instant, and then his eyes sought his rescuer’s
face.
“Forgive me,” he said. “But I guess I have been a little off my base.
And no wonder. I’ve been in hell.”
“True to your orders, for all that, eh?” Hugo queried. “Lost, half
frozen, daft, and yet hanging on like a bulldog. Lord! is it any wonder
that the Force is what it is when it contains men like you? But tell
me, where is my daughter?”
“Marion?”
“Yes.”
“Back there with Constable Rolfe. I was on my way to The Gap for aid
when this storm knocked me out. Will you help me?”
“Is it a truce, then?” Hugo asked.
“A truce to what?”
“To our enmity. We are enemies, so it seems. But we must be friends for
a time to save my daughter.”
“Yes, and to save the girl I love, and who has promised to be my wife,”
the sergeant replied.
Hugo’s face darkened and a terrible temptation smote his heart. It was
only for an instant, however, and then reaching out, he seized North’s
mittened hand.
“It is well,” he simply said. “Let it be the truce of the storm.”