Produced by Donald Lainson
THE MAN FROM GLENGARRY
A TALE OF THE OTTAWA
By Ralph Connor
DEDICATION
TO THE MEN OF GLENGARRY WHO IN PATIENCE, IN COURAGE AND IN THE FEAR OF
GOD ARE HELPING TO BUILD THE EMPIRE OF THE CANADIAN WEST THIS BOOK IS
HUMBLY DEDICATED
PREFACE
The solid forests of Glengarry have vanished, and with the forests the
men who conquered them. The manner of life and the type of character to
be seen in those early days have gone too, and forever. It is part of
the purpose of this book to so picture these men and their times that
they may not drop quite out of mind. The men are worth remembering.
They carried the marks of their blood in their fierce passions, their
courage, their loyalty; and of the forest in their patience, their
resourcefulness, their self-reliance. But deeper than all, the mark that
reached down to their hearts' core was that of their faith, for in
them dwelt the fear of God. Their religion may have been narrow, but
no narrower than the moulds of their lives. It was the biggest thing in
them. It may have taken a somber hue from their gloomy forests, but
by reason of a sweet, gracious presence dwelling among them it grew in
grace and sweetness day by day.
In the Canada beyond the Lakes, where men are making empire, the sons
of these Glengarry men are found. And there such men are needed. For
not wealth, not enterprise, not energy, can build a nation into sure
greatness, but men, and only men with the fear of God in their hearts,
and with no other. And to make this clear is also a part of the purpose
of this book.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER
I THE OPEN RIVER
II VENGEANCE IS MINE
III THE MANSE IN THE BUSH
IV THE RIDE FOR LIFE
V FORGIVE US OUR DEBTS
VI A NEW FRIEND
VII MAIMIE
VIII THE SUGARING-OFF
IX A SABBATH DAY'S WORK
X THE HOME-COMING OF THE SHANTYMEN
XI THE WAKE
XII SEED-TIME
XIII THE LOGGING BEE
XIV SHE WILL NOT FORGET
XV THE REVIVAL
XVI AND THE GLORY
XVII LENOIR'S NEW MASTER
XVIII HE IS NOT OF MY KIND
XIX ONE GAME AT A TIME
XX HER CLINGING ARMS
XXI I WILL REMEMBER
XXII FORGET THAT I LOVED YOU
XXIII A GOOD, TRUE FRIEND
XXIV THE WEST
XXV GLENGARRY FOREVER
THE MAN FROM GLENGARRY
CHAPTER I
THE OPEN RIVER
The winter had broken early and the Scotch River was running ice-free
and full from bank to bank. There was still snow in the woods, and with
good sleighing and open rivers every day was golden to the lumbermen
who had stuff to get down to the big water. A day gained now might save
weeks at a chute farther down, where the rafts would crowd one another
and strive for right of way.
Dan Murphy was mightily pleased with himself and with the bit of the
world about him, for there lay his winter's cut of logs in the river
below him snug and secure and held tight by a boom across the mouth,
just where it flowed into the Nation. In a few days he would have his
crib made, and his outfit ready to start for the Ottawa mills. He was
sure to be ahead of the big timber rafts that took up so much space,
and whose crews with unbearable effrontery considered themselves the
aristocrats of the river.
Yes, it was a pleasant and satisfying sight, some three solid miles of
logs boomed at the head of the big water. Suddenly Murphy turned his
face up the river.
“What's that now, d'ye think, LeNware?” he asked.
LeNoir, or “LeNware,” as they all called it in that country, was Dan
Murphy's foreman, and as he himself said, “for haxe, for hit (eat),
for fight de boss on de reever Hottawa! by Gar!” Louis LeNoir was a
French-Canadian, handsome, active, hardy, and powerfully built. He had
come from the New Brunswick woods some three years ago, and had wrought
and fought his way, as he thought, against all rivals to the proud
position of “boss on de reever,” the topmost pinnacle of a lumberman's
ambition. It was something to see LeNoir “run a log” across the river
and back; that is, he would balance himself upon a floating log, and by
spinning it round, would send it whither he would. At Murphy's question
LeNoir stood listening with bent head and open mouth. Down the river
came the sound of singing. “Don-no me! Ah oui! be dam! Das Macdonald
gang for sure! De men from Glengarrie, les diables! Dey not hout de
reever yet.” His boss went off into a volley of oaths--
“They'll be wanting the river now, an' they're divils to fight.”
“We give em de full belly, heh? Bon!” said LeNoir, throwing back his
head. His only unconquered rival on the river was the boss of the
Macdonald gang.
Ho ro, mo nighean donn bhoidheach,
Hi-ri, mo nighean donn bhoidheach,
Mo chaileag, laghach, bhoidheach,
Cha phosainn ach thu.
Down the river came the strong, clear chorus of men's voices, and soon a
“pointer” pulled by six stalwart men with a lad in the stern swung round
the bend into view. A single voice took up the song--
'S ann tha mo run's na beanntaibh,
Far bheil mo ribhinn ghreannar,
Mar ros am fasach shamhraidh
An gleann fad o shuil.
After the verse the full chorus broke forth again--
Ho ro, mo nighean, etc.
Swiftly the pointer shot down the current, the swaying bodies and
swinging oars in perfect rhythm with the song that rose and fell with
melancholy but musical cadence. The men on the high bank stood looking
down upon the approaching singers. “You know dem fellers?” said LeNoir.
Murphy nodded. “Ivery divil iv thim--Big Mack Cameron, Dannie Ross,
Finlay Campbell--the redheaded one--the next I don't know, and yes! be
dad! there's that blanked Yankee, Yankee Jim, they call him, an' bad
luck till him. The divil will have to take the poker till him, for he'll
bate him wid his fists, and so he will--and that big black divil is
Black Hugh, the brother iv the boss Macdonald. He'll be up in the camp
beyant, and a mighty lucky thing for you, LeNoir, he is.”
“Bah!” spat LeNoir, “Dat beeg Macdonald I mak heem run like one leetle
sheep, one tam at de long Sault, bah! No good!” LeNoir's contempt for
Macdonald was genuine and complete. For two years he had tried to meet
the boss Macdonald, but his rival had always avoided him.
Meantime, the pointer came swinging along. As it turned the point
the boy uttered an exclamation--“Look there!” The song and the rowing
stopped abruptly; the big, dark man stood up and gazed down the river,
packed from bank to bank with the brown saw-logs; deep curses broke from
him. Then he caught sight of the men on the bank. A word of command and
the pointer shot into the shore, and the next moment Macdonald Dubh,
or Black Hugh, as he was sometimes called, followed by his men, was
climbing up the steep bank.
“What the blank, blank, do these logs mean, Murphy?” he demanded,
without pause for salutation.
“Tis a foine avenin' Misther Macdonald,” said Murphy, blandly offering
his hand, “an' Hiven bliss ye.”
Macdonald checked himself with an effort and reluctantly shook hands
with Murphy and LeNoir, whom he slightly knew. “It is a fery goot
evening, indeed,” he said, in as quiet a voice as he could command, “but
I am inquiring about these logs.”
“Shure, an' it is a dhry night, and onpolite to kape yez talking here.
Come in wid yez,” and much against his will Black Hugh followed Murphy
to the tavern, the most pretentious of a group of log buildings--once
a lumber camp--which stood back a little distance from the river, and
about which Murphy's men, some sixty of them, were now camped.
The tavern was full of Murphy's gang, a motley crew, mostly French
Canadians and Irish, just out of the woods and ready for any devilment
that promised excitement. Most of them knew by sight, and all by
reputation, Macdonald and his gang, for from the farthest reaches of the
Ottawa down the St. Lawrence to Quebec the Macdonald gang of Glengarry
men was famous. They came, most of them, from that strip of country
running back from the St. Lawrence through Glengarry County, known as
the Indian Lands--once an Indian reservation. They were sons of the men
who had come from the highlands and islands of Scotland in the early
years of the last century. Driven from homes in the land of their
fathers, they had set themselves with indomitable faith and courage to
hew from the solid forest, homes for themselves and their children that
none might take from them. These pioneers were bound together by ties of
blood, but also by bonds stronger than those of blood. Their loneliness,
their triumphs, their sorrows, born of their common life-long conflict
with the forest and its fierce beasts, knit them in bonds close and
enduring. The sons born to them and reared in the heart of the pine
forests grew up to witness that heroic struggle with stern nature and to
take their part in it. And mighty men they were. Their life bred in
them hardiness of frame, alertness of sense, readiness of resource,
endurance, superb self-reliance, a courage that grew with peril, and
withal a certain wildness which at times deepened into ferocity. By
their fathers the forest was dreaded and hated, but the sons, with
rifles in hand, trod its pathless stretches without fear, and with their
broad-axes they took toll of their ancient foe. For while in spring and
summer they farmed their narrow fields, and rescued new lands from the
brule; in winter they sought the forest, and back on their own farms or
in “the shanties” they cut sawlogs, or made square timber, their only
source of wealth. The shanty life of the early fifties of last century
was not the luxurious thing of to-day. It was full of privation, for
the men were poorly housed and fed, and of peril, for the making of the
timber and the getting it down the smaller rivers to the big water was
a work of hardship and danger. Remote from the restraints of law and
of society, and living in wild surroundings and in hourly touch with
danger, small wonder that often the shanty-men were wild and reckless.
So that many a poor fellow in a single wild carouse in Quebec, or more
frequently in some river town, would fling into the hands of sharks
and harlots and tavern-keepers, with whom the bosses were sometimes in
league, the earnings of his long winter's work, and would wake to find
himself sick and penniless, far from home and broken in spirit.
Of all the shanty-men of the Ottawa the men of Glengarry, and of
Glengarry men Macdonald's gang were easily first, and of the gang Donald
Bhain Macdonald, or Macdonald More, or the Big Macdonald, for he was
variously known, was not only the “boss” but best and chief. There was
none like him. A giant in size and strength, a prince of broad-axe men,
at home in the woods, sure-footed and daring on the water, free with
his wages, and always ready to drink with friend or fight with foe, the
whole river admired, feared, or hated him, while his own men followed
him into the woods, on to a jam, or into a fight with equal joyousness
and devotion. Fighting was like wine to him, when the fight was worth
while, and he went into the fights his admirers were always arranging
for him with the easiest good humor and with a smile on his face. But
Macdonald Bhain's carousing, fighting days came to an abrupt stop about
three years before the opening of this tale, for on one of his summer
visits to his home, “The word of the Lord in the mouth of his servant
Alexander Murray,” as he was wont to say, “found him and he was a new
man.” He went into his new life with the same whole-souled joyousness as
had marked the old, and he announced that with the shanty and the river
he was “done for ever more.” But after the summer's work was done, and
the logging over, and when the snap of the first frost nipped the leaves
from the trees, Macdonald became restless. He took down his broad-axe
and spent hours polishing it and bringing it to an edge, then he put it
in its wooden sheath and laid it away. But the fever was upon him, ten
thousand voices from the forest were shouting for him. He went away
troubled to his minister. In an hour he came back with the old good
humor in his face, took down the broad-axe again, and retouched it,
lovingly, humming the while the old river song of the Glengarry men--
Ho ro mo nighean, etc.
He was going back to the bush and to the biggest fight of his life. No
wonder he was glad. Then his good little wife began to get ready his
long, heavy stockings, his thick mits, his homespun smock, and other
gear, for she knew well that soon she would be alone for another
winter. Before long the word went round that Macdonald Bhain was for the
shanties again, and his men came to him for their orders.
But it was not to the old life that Macdonald was going, and he gravely
told those that came to him that he would take no man who could not
handle his axe and hand-spike, and who could not behave himself.
“Behaving himself” meant taking no more whiskey than a man could carry,
and refusing all invitations to fight unless “necessity was laid upon
him.” The only man to object was his own brother, Macdonald Dubh, whose
temper was swift to blaze, and with whom the blow was quicker than the
word. But after the second year of the new order even Black Hugh fell
into line. Macdonald soon became famous on the Ottawa. He picked only
the best men, he fed them well, paid them the highest wages, and cared
for their comfort, but held them in strictest discipline. They would
drink but kept sober, they would spend money but knew how much was
coming to them. They feared no men even of “twice their own heavy and
big,” but would never fight except under necessity. Contracts began to
come their way. They made money, and what was better, they brought it
home. The best men sought to join them, but by rival gangs and by men
rejected from their ranks they were hated with deepest heart hatred. But
the men from Glengarry knew no fear and sought no favor. They asked only
a good belt of pine and an open river. As a rule they got both, and it
was peculiarly maddening to Black Hugh to find two or three miles of
solid logs between his timber and the open water of the Nation. Black
Hugh had a temper fierce and quick, and when in full flame he was a man
to avoid, for from neither man nor devil would he turn. The only man
who could hold him was his brother Macdonald Bhain, for strong man as
he was, Black Hugh knew well that his brother could with a single swift
grip bring him to his knees.
It was unfortunate that the command of the party this day should have
been Macdonald Dubh's. Unfortunate, too, that it was Dan Murphy and his
men that happened to be blocking the river mouth. For the Glengarry men,
who handled only square timber, despised the Murphy gang as sawlog-men;
“log-rollers” or “mushrats” they called them, and hated them as Irish
“Papishes” and French “Crapeaux,” while between Dan Murphy and Macdonald
Dubh there was an ancient personal grudge, and to-day Murphy thought he
had found his time. There were only six of the enemy, he had ten times
the number with him, many of them eager to pay off old scores; and
besides there was Louis LeNoir as the “Boss Bully” of the river. The
Frenchman was not only a powerful man, active with hands and feet, but
he was an adept in all kinds of fighting tricks. Since coming to the
Ottawa he had heard of the big Macdonald, and he sought to meet him. But
Macdonald avoided him once and again till LeNoir, having never known
any one avoiding a fight for any reason other than fear, proclaimed
Macdonald a coward, and himself “de boss on de reever.” Now there was
a chance of meeting his rival and of forcing a fight, for the Glengarry
camp could not be far away where the big Macdonald himself would be.
So Dan Murphy, backed up with numbers, and the boss bully LeNoir,
determined that for these Macdonald men the day of settlement had
come. But they were dangerous men, and it would be well to take all
precautions, and hence his friendly invitation to the tavern for drinks.
Macdonald Dubh, scorning to show hesitation, though he suspected
treachery, strode after Murphy to the tavern door and through the crowd
of shanty-men filling the room. They were as ferocious looking a lot
of men as could well be got together, even in that country and in those
days--shaggy of hair and beard, dressed out in red and blue and green
jerseys, with knitted sashes about their waists, and red and blue and
green tuques on their heads. Drunken rows were their delight, and fights
so fierce that many a man came out battered and bruised to death or to
life-long decrepitude. They were sitting on the benches that ran round
the room, or lounging against the bar singing, talking, blaspheming. At
the sight of Macdonald Dubh and his men there fell a dead silence, and
then growls of recognition, but Murphy was not yet ready, and roaring
out “Dh-r-r-i-n-k-s,” he seized a couple of his men leaning against the
bar, and hurling them to right and left, cried, “Ma-a-ke room for yer
betthers, be the powers! Sthand up, bhoys, and fill yirsilves!”
Black Hugh and his men lined up gravely to the bar and were straightway
surrounded by the crowd yelling hideously. But if Murphy and his gang
thought to intimidate those grave Highlanders with noise, they were
greatly mistaken, for they stood quietly waiting for their glasses to
be filled, alert, but with an air of perfect indifference. Some eight or
ten glasses were set down and filled, when Murphy, snatching a couple
of bottles from the shelf behind the bar, handed them out to his men,
crying, “Here, ye bluddy thaves, lave the glasses to the gintlemen!”
There was no mistaking the insolence in his tone, and the chorus of
derisive yells that answered him showed that his remark had gone to the
spot.
Yankee Jim, who had kept close to Black Hugh, saw the veins in his
neck beginning to swell, and face to grow dark. He was longing to be
at Murphy's throat. “Speak him fair,” he said, in a low tone, “there's
rather a good string of 'em raound.” Macdonald Dubh glanced about him.
His eye fell on his boy, and for the first time his face became anxious.
“Ranald,” he said, angrily, “take yourself out of this. It is no place
for you whatever.” The boy, a slight lad of seventeen, but tall and
well-knit, and with his father's fierce, wild, dark face, hesitated.
“Go,” said his father, giving him a slight cuff.
“Here, boy!” yelled LeNoir, catching him by the arm and holding the
bottle to his mouth, “drink.” The boy took a gulp, choked, and spat
it out. LeNoir and his men roared. “Dat good whiskey,” he cried, still
holding the boy. “You not lak dat, hey?”
“No,” said the boy, “it is not good at all.”
“Try heem some more,” said LeNoir, thrusting the bottle at him again.
“I will not,” said Ranald, looking at LeNoir straight and fearless.
“Ho-ho! mon brave enfant! But you have not de good mannere. Come,
drink!” He caught the boy by the back of the neck, and made as if to
pour the whiskey down his throat. Black Hugh, who had been kept back by
Yankee Jim all this time, started forward, but before he could take a
second step Ranald, squirming round like a cat, had sunk his teeth into
LeNoir's wrist. With a cry of rage and pain LeNoir raised the bottle and
was bringing it down on Ranald's head, when Black Hugh, with one hand,
caught the falling blow, and with the other seized Ranald, and crying,
“Get out of this!” he flung him towards the door. Then turning to
LeNoir, he said, with surprising self-control, “It is myself that is
sorry that a boy of mine should be guilty of biting like a dog.”
“Sa-c-r-re le chien!” yelled LeNoir, shaking off Macdonald Dubh; “he is
one dog, and the son of a dog!” He turned and started for the boy. But
Yankee Jim had got Ranald to the door and was whispering to him. “Run!”
cried Yankee Jim, pushing him out of the door, and the boy was off like
the wind. LeNoir pursued him a short way and returned raging.
Yankee Jim, or Yankee, as he was called for short, came back to
Macdonald Dubh's side, and whispering to the other Highlanders, “Keep
your backs clear,” sat up coolly on the counter. The fight was sure to
come and there were seven to one against them in the room. If he could
only gain time. Every minute was precious. It would take the boy fifteen
minutes to run the two miles to camp. It would be half an hour before
the rest of the Glengarry men could arrive, and much fighting may be
done in that time. He must avert attention from Macdonald Dubh, who was
waiting to cram LeNoir's insult down his throat. Yankee Jim had not
only all the cool courage but also the shrewd, calculating spirit of
his race. He was ready to fight, and if need be against odds, but he
preferred to fight on as even terms as possible.
Soon LeNoir came back, wild with fury, and yelling curses at the top of
his voice. He hurled himself into the room, the crowd falling back from
him on either hand.
“Hola!” he yelled, “Sacre bleu!” He took two quick steps, and springing
up into the air he kicked the stovepipe that ran along some seven feet
above the floor.
“Purty good kicking,” called out Yankee, sliding down from his seat.
“Used to kick some myself. Excuse ME.” He stood for a moment looking up
at the stovepipe, then without apparent effort he sprang into the air,
shot up his long legs, and knocked the stovepipe with a bang against the
ceiling. There was a shout of admiration.
“My damages,” he said to Pat Murphy, who stood behind the counter. “Good
thing there ain't no fire. Thought it was higher. Wouldn't care to kick
for the drinks, would ye?” he added to LeNoir.
LeNoir was too furious to enter into any contest so peaceful, but as he
specially prided himself on his high kick, he paused a moment and was
about to agree when Black Hugh broke in, harshly, spoiling all Yankee's
plans.
“There is no time for such foolishness,” he said, turning to Dan Murphy.
“I want to know when we can get our timber out.”
“Depinds intoirly on yirsilf,” said Murphy.
“When will your logs be out of the way?”
“Indade an' that's a ha-r-r-d one,” laughed Murphy.
“And will you tell me what right hev you to close up the river?” Black
Hugh's wrath was rising.
“You wud think now it wuz yirsilf that owned the river. An' bedad it's
the thought of yir mind, it is. An' it's not the river only, but the
whole creation ye an yir brother think is yours.” Dan Murphy was close up
to Macdonald Dubh by this time. “Yis, blank, blank, yir faces, an' ye'd
like to turn better than yirsilves from aff the river, so ye wud, ye
black-hearted thaves that ye are.”
This, of course, was beyond all endurance. For answer Black Hugh smote
him sudden and fierce on the mouth, and Murphy went down.
“Purty one,” sang out Yankee, cheerily. “Now, boys, back to the wall.”
Before Murphy could rise, LeNoir sprang over him and lit upon Macdonald
like a cat, but Macdonald shook himself free and sprang back to the
Glengarry line at the wall.
“Mac an' Diabboil,” he roared, “Glengarry forever!”
“Glengarry!” yelled the four Highlanders beside him, wild with the
delight of battle. It was a plain necessity, and they went into it with
free consciences and happy hearts.
“Let me at him,” cried Murphy, struggling past LeNoir towards Macdonald.
“Non! He is to me!” yelled LeNoir, dancing in front of Macdonald.
“Here, Murphy,” called out Yankee, obligingly, “help yourself this way.”
Murphy dashed at him, but Yankee's long arm shot out to meet him, and
Murphy again found the floor.
“Come on, boys,” cried Pat Murphy, Dan's brother, and followed by half a
dozen others, he flung himself at Yankee and the line of men standing up
against the wall. But Yankee's arms flashed out once, twice, thrice, and
Pat Murphy fell back over his brother; two others staggered across and
checked the oncoming rush, while Dannie Ross and big Mack Cameron had
each beaten back their man, and the Glengarry line stood unbroken.
Man for man they were far more than a match for their opponents, and
standing shoulder to shoulder, with their backs to the wall, they
taunted Murphy and his gang with all the wealth of gibes and oaths at
their command.
“Where's the rest of your outfit, Murphy?” drawled Yankee. “Don't seem's
if you'd counted right.”
“It is a cold day for the parley voos,” laughed Big Mack Cameron. “Come
up, lads, and take a taste of something hot.”
Then the Murphy men, clearing away the fallen, rushed again. They strove
to bring the Highlanders to a clinch, but Yankee's voice was high and
clear in command.
“Keep the line, boys! Don't let 'em draw you!” And the Glengarry men
waited till they could strike, and when they struck men went down and
were pulled back by their friends.
“Intil them, bhoys!” yelled Dan Murphy, keeping out of range himself.
“Intil the divils!” And again and again his men crowded down upon the
line against the wall, but again and again they were beaten down or
hurled back bruised and bleeding.
Meantime LeNoir was devoting himself to Black Hugh at one end of the
line, dancing in upon him and away again, but without much result. Black
Hugh refused to be drawn out, and fought warily on defense, knowing the
odds were great and waiting his chance to deliver one good blow, which
was all he asked.
The Glengarry men were enjoying themselves hugely, and when not shouting
their battle-cry, “Glengarry forever!” or taunting their foes, they were
joking each other on the fortunes of war. Big Mack Cameron, who held the
center, drew most of the sallies. He was easy-tempered and good-natured,
and took his knocks with the utmost good humor.
“That was a good one, Mack,” said Dannie Ross, his special chum, as a
sounding whack came in on Big Mack's face. “As true as death I will be
telling it to Bella Peter. Bella, the daughter of Peter McGregor, was
supposed to be dear to Big Mack's heart.
“What a peety she could not see him the now,” said Finlay Campbell. “Man
alive, she would say the word queeck!”
“'Tis more than she will do to you whatever, if you cannot keep off that
crapeau yonder a little better,” said Big Mack, reaching for a Frenchman
who kept dodging in upon him with annoying persistence. Then Mack began
to swear Gaelic oaths.
“'Tain't fair, Mack!” called out Yankee from his end of the line, “bad
language in English is bad enough, but in Gaelic it must be uncommon
rough.” So they gibed each other. But the tactics of the enemy were
exceedingly irritating, and were beginning to tell upon the tempers of
the Highlanders.
“Come to me, ye cowardly little devil,” roared Mack to his persisting
assailant. “No one will hurt you! Come away, man! A-a-ah-ouch!” His cry
of satisfaction at having grabbed his man ended in a howl of pain, for
the Frenchman had got Mack's thumb between his teeth, and was chewing it
vigorously.
“Ye would, would you, ye dog?” roared Big Mack. He closed his fingers
into the Frenchman's gullet, and drew him up to strike, but on every
side hands reached for him and stayed his blow. Then he lost himself.
With a yell of rage he jambed his man back into the crowd, sinking his
fingers deeper and deeper into his enemy's throat till his face grew
black and his head fell over on one side. But it was a fatal move
for Mack, and overcome by numbers that crowded upon him, he went down
fighting wildly and bearing the Frenchman beneath him. The Glengarry
line was broken. Black Hugh saw Mack's peril, and knew that it
meant destruction to all. With a wilder cry than usual, “Glengarry!
Glengarry!” he dashed straight into LeNoir, who gave back swiftly,
caught two men who were beating Big Mack's life out, and hurled them
aside, and grasping his friend's collar, hauled him to his feet, and
threw him back against the wall and into the line again with his grip
still upon his Frenchman's throat.
“Let dead men go, Mack,” he cried, but even as he spoke LeNoir, seeing
his opportunity, sprang at him and with a backward kick caught Macdonald
fair in the face and lashed him hard against the wall. It was the
terrible French 'lash' and was one of LeNoir's special tricks. Black
Hugh, stunned and dazed, leaned back against the wall, spreading out his
hands weakly before his face. LeNoir, seeing victory within his grasp,
rushed in to finish off his special foe. But Yankee Jim, who, while
engaged in cheerfully knocking back the two Murphys and others who took
their turn at him, had been keeping an eye on the line of battle, saw
Macdonald's danger, and knowing that the crisis had come, dashed across
the line, crying “Follow me, boys.” His long arms swung round his head
like the sails of a wind-mill, and men fell back from him as if they had
been made of wood. As LeNoir sprang, Yankee shot fiercely at him, but
the Frenchman, too quick for him, ducked and leaped upon Black Hugh, who
was still swaying against the wall, bore him down and jumped with his
heavy “corked” boots on his breast and face. Again the Glengarry line
was broken. At once the crowd surged about the Glengarry men, who now
stood back to back, beating off the men leaping at them from every side,
as a stag beats off dogs, and still chanting high their dauntless cry,
“Glengarry forever,” to which Big Mack added at intervals, “To hell with
the Papishes!” Yankee, failing to check LeNoir's attack upon Black Hugh,
fought off the men crowding upon him, and made his way to the corner
where the Frenchman was still engaged in kicking the prostrate
Highlander to death.
“Take that, you blamed cuss,” he said, catching LeNoir in the jaw and
knocking his head with a thud against the wall. Before he could strike
again he was thrown against his enemy, who clutched him and held like a
vice.