In September a sinister and foreboding gloom seemed to creep out of the
wilderness surrounding Five Fingers.
The golden autumn, with its soft Indian summer and its radiance of
color, died almost before it was born. The birch leaves did not turn
yellow and gold but stopped at a rusty brown; the poplar leaves curled
up and began to fall from their stems before the first frost; mountain
ash berries were pink instead of red, and heavy fogs settled like wet
blankets between the ridges, while in the swamps the rabbits were dying
in hundreds and thousands of the mysterious "seven years' sickness."
The men at Five Fingers, and especially Pierre Gourdon and Dominique
Beauvais, who read the wilderness as if it were a book, regarded these
matters with anxious eyes. It was Pierre who called attention to the
going of the bluebirds a month before their time, and noted first that
the red squirrels were gathering great stores of cones, and that the
robins were restless and uneasy and were assembling in the flocks which
presaged sudden flight.
Then, one sunset, a great flock of wild geese went honking south. They
were high and flying very fast.
Pierre Gourdon pointed up. "When the wild geese race like that in
September--it means a bad winter. Only twice have I seen it. The last
time was two years before we came to Five Fingers--a year of starvation
and plague; and the other time----" He shuddered, and shrugged his
shoulders, for that other time was in boyhood, when his mother and
father had died back in the forests, and he had dragged himself
starving and nearly dead to Ste. Anne de Beaupré.
Colder nights came, filled with moaning winds, and the days were
darkened by ash-gray skies through which the sun seldom shone warmly,
and more and more frequently came the honk of geese racing south. Peter
could hear them at night, in darkness and when the stars were shining,
coming from the north, crying down their solemn notes of passage from
the high trails of the air.
And these same nights he heard the wolves howl back in the hollows and
ridges and deeper hunting grounds of the forests, and Pierre Gourdon
listened uneasily to the cold, hard note in their voices, and said to
Dominique:
"The wolves will run lean this winter, and when hunger trails the
wolves, famine is not far behind."
But it was the dying of the rabbits more than the crying of the wolves
that worried them at first. The plague-stricken animals were lying
everywhere, even up to the steps of the cabins, and one day Peter
counted so many in a corner of the swamp that Simon McQuarrie's eyes
widened a little with doubt when he told his story. Once every seven or
nine years had the rabbit plague swept on its devastating way through
the wilderness, but never had Pierre or Dominique or Simon seen it so
destructive as this year, and the nearer howling of the wolves and
the strange, clammy nights with their deathlike fogs roused in Pierre
Gourdon's heart the ghosts of old superstitions and old fears put there
in tragic days when he was a boy.
And then came a night when the world seemed filled with wet smoke,
and on that night the gray Canada geese came down from the north in
a multitude so great that they filled the sky over Five Fingers with
a winged deluge, and thousands of them dropped into the inlet and
the clearing to rest. Their honking was a bedlam which made sleep
impossible, and with the dawn Peter could see them darkening the fields
and the water of Middle Finger Inlet. When the various companies and
regiments began taking wing the sound they made was a steady thunder
that sent a weird and thrilling shudder through earth and air. There
were ten thousand pair of wings in that southward moving host, Pierre
Gourdon said. Peter had never thought there were so many wild geese in
the world and it puzzled him that not one of them was killed by the men
at Five Fingers.
"A wild goose mates but once," Pierre explained. "If his mate dies,
he does not take another, but lives alone for the rest of his life.
Memory and loyalty like that men do not have, and so it is a crime to
kill them." Then he added, looking up thoughtfully at one of the winged
triangles racing through the sky, "And the gray goose lives a hundred
years!"
In October what were left of the big snowshoe rabbits began to turn
white, and the wind kept steadily in the north. Snow fell early. All
through November the big lake was lashed by fierce gales; the Pit
roared and whipped itself into furies, and the gulls were gone entirely
from Middle Finger Inlet. In a single night, it seemed to Peter, winter
came. And from the beginning it was a black, ominous winter. For days
at a time there was no sun. The sky was shut in by a gray canopy of
cloud. When snow fell it was hard and biting, and riding with the wind,
it stung the flesh like fine shot.
In December came a change. The winds died, the skies cleared a little,
and day and night it snowed until the wilderness was smothered and
the evergreen forests bent to the snapping point under their burden.
Trails were closed and the hollows between ridges were filled. One day
Poleon Dufresne snowshoed in from the railroad settlement, half dead
from exhaustion and bearing the news that all the world was shut out by
snow, and that it lay twenty feet deep in the open places. And quietly
he gave other news to Pierre Gourdon and Dominique and Simon McQuarrie.
The dreaded plague of the wilderness--the smallpox--had already begun
to stalk through the northland.
Following the deep snows came a cold so intense that the men no
longer ran the hazard of frosted lungs by working in the woods, and
all wild life seemed to have become extinct. Between the lake and the
settlements along the line of steel one could scarcely have found the
trail of a cloven hoof, for the deer and moose were yarded deep and
struggled breast-high against snow for the bush-browsing that kept them
alive, while the caribou, milling against wind and storm, had left the
snow-smothered country for feeding grounds farther north. It was a
winter that began--first of all--with starvation. The icy coating of
the trees left no budding for the grouse; small creatures smothered
in thousands under the hardening snow crust which could soon bear the
weight of a man; foxes and ermine gnawed bark in their hunger; with the
rabbits gone, owls died of a sickness which ravages them in times of
forest famine--and the empty stomachs of wolves brought them nearer and
nearer to the clearing until frightened horses broke halters in their
stalls and cattle bellowed in their terror.
Peter had never heard wolves as they cried out now. Sometimes their
wail of hunger was almost a sobbing in the night, and again it was
bitter and vengeful as hoof and horn beat them back from some yarded
stronghold of moose and deer.
Each day and week Peter came to understand more of the tragedy through
which he was passing. It was one of the "black years." Father Albanel
came to the settlement early in January; he was thin and haggard,
his eyes deep-set, the rosy color gone from his face. In the little
church he asked the people of Five Fingers to offer up prayer for the
thousands who were sick and the hundreds who were dying through all the
great wilderness from Hudson Bay to the Athabasca and from Big Lake to
the Barren Lands. Over all that country the plague was raging, sweeping
like a forest fire from tepee to cabin, until in certain far places the
great Hudson Bay Company could no longer bury its dead, and masterless
dogs ran with the wild things in the forests. Pierre Gourdon's face
was almost as haggard as Father Albanel's, and Mona called Peter's
attention to it, with a tense and strange look in her eyes.
"I overheard Uncle Pierre and Aunt Josette when they were talking last
night and they said they weren't afraid for themselves but that they
were afraid for me," she said. "Why should they be, Peter? I don't get
sick easily."
"You're a girl, that's why," he explained.
"But if I should get sick--what would you do? Would you dare to come
and see me?"
"I'd come."
"Even if it was the plague?"
"I'd still come."
[Illustration:
_OLD SIMON_ held Peter off at arm's length, his
stern face working in a strange way
]
[Illustration:
_PETER McRAE_ had come home and a whisper
of gladness ran among the crowd
]
"I'd like to have you, Peter. If I was sick and you didn't come, I
think it would make me feel so badly I wouldn't get well."
And that night, with the wolves wailing at its doors, the blighting
hand of the red plague fell upon Five Fingers!
It touched Geertruda Poulin first, and Jeremie, her husband, nailed
a red cloth over his cabin door to keep the children at a distance,
and that rag, fluttering in the winds, soon filled their hearts with
a greater terror than if they had seen a _loup-garou_ haunting the
edge of the forest or the grim hunters of the _Chasse-galerie_ riding
through the gloomy sky, for they were told that to go near it meant
death. And then, three days later, little Tobina fell ill, and with
a pale, brave face and eyes in which there was no sign of fear Marie
Antoinette went into the plague-stricken cabin to nurse them. After
that Joe Gourdon's face was like a mask carven out of stone until the
night when Jame Clamart pounded at his door and cried out the terrible
news that Adette was down with the fever. And that midnight Josette
calmly kissed Pierre and Mona good-by and went to her. Until she was
gone Pierre held back the sob in his throat--then it escaped him, and
he held Mona close, so close that it hurt her. It was on a Sunday
morning, bitterly cold and filled with gusty winds, that Jeremie Poulin
staggered out from his door and flung up his arms to the sky, and the
word passed from cabin to cabin that Geertruda was dead.
Alone, barring all others from their company, Simon McQuarrie and
Father Albanel dug with picks and grub-hoes the first new grave in the
little cemetery. Chunk by chunk they broke out the frozen earth, and
when it was dark--so dark no eyes could see them--they helped Jeremie
Poulin carry his dead over the clearing and upon their knees prayed
with him at the grave-side. After that they lived in one of the barns,
visiting only the sick and the dead, and each morning and evening Simon
would shout to Peter through the megaphone of his hands, asking him
if he felt pain or dizziness or fever, and warning him to stay in the
cabin. Then Sara Dufresne and two of her three children were stricken
and Jean Croisset died so suddenly that the shock of it stopped every
heart in Five Fingers. Pounding of hammers came from the barn, and
the next morning there was another mound of brown and frozen earth in
the cemetery. A day later Dominique Beauvais, with his house full of
children, nailed up the red badge of sickness over his cabin door.
Each day Peter saw Mona. They spent their hours together, and Pierre
Gourdon watched them as a hawk watches its young. At night they sat
at their windows, for after Jean's death the skies cleared and a
glorious moon filled the world with light. And one night Peter heard
the hammers pounding again, and in the gray of dawn--still sleepless
and wide-eyed--he saw Father Albanel and Simon and Jeremie Poulin come
from Dominique Beauvais's cabin bearing a long, grim thing among them;
and when they had reached the burial slope he saw them turn back, and
enter the cabin again, and come forth once more with their shoulders
bent under a burden. Peter's heart choked him. He sobbed and clutched
his hands at his breast. It was Félipe and Dominique, the two youngest
of the Beauvais children, whom he had seen carried to the burial plot.
Sobbing, he ran toward Mona's home. The door opened and Pierre Gourdon
came out. Peter stopped a few paces away, for there was something in
Pierre's face that frightened him. At first he thought it must be the
madness of the fever; then his ears caught words, strange, hard words
that froze his blood and that seemed to come with a mighty effort from
Pierre's ghastly face. Mona was sick! She was in bed--and he must
return to Simon McQuarrie's cabin and not come again within breathing
distance of the house! Peter moved closer to the door, powerless to
speak, and Pierre thrust him back so roughly that he fell to the ground.
"Go away!" he commanded, raising a hand as if to strike the boy.
Through the open door Peter had a glimpse of Josette's face looking out
at him, so white and haggard that for a moment he thought it was an old
woman's face. He cried out to her but in the same moment she was gone
and there came no answer.
Then he spoke half defiantly to Pierre.
"I want to see Mona," he said. "I promised her I'd come if she was
sick."
"Go!" said Pierre again, pointing sternly toward Simon McQuarrie's
cabin. "You can come halfway to learn how Mona is, but if you come this
near again I shall have you taken from Five Fingers!"
Peter drew slowly away, staring in horror at Pierre and the cabin
behind him. He slumped down on the doorstep at Simon's place and did
not feel the bitter cold. He saw Pierre enter the cabin, and then he
watched the gray figures in the distant cemetery as they moved slowly
about, piling the last of the frozen clods upon the burdens they had
carried through the dawn a few minutes before. And Mona was down with
that same sickness--which meant death!
In his torment he picked and twisted at his clothes until his thin
fingers were blue with the cold. Pierre came out again and put up
the red cloth, and then he went to intercept the three men who were
on their way from the cemetery to their quarters in the barn. Father
Albanel and Simon McQuarrie returned with Pierre and entered the cabin
where Mona was sick. In a few minutes Simon came out and seeing Peter
huddled on the doorstep, approached as near to him as he dared. He
asked the same questions, and gave the same warnings, and assured
Peter that Mona was only slightly ill, and that she would get over it
very quickly. But there was in his face the same look that had been in
Pierre's, and Peter knew he was lying.
"She is going to die," his heart kept crying, and he dragged himself
into the cabin and flung himself upon Simon's bed, and when Joe Gourdon
came in he was crying, his head buried in his arms. With his beloved
Marie Antoinette keeping guard in Jeremie Poulin's house of death, Joe
was making a courageous fight. "Tobina Poulin is past all danger, and
if things go well Aunt Marie Antoinette will come home in a few days,
and then you can come to us," he comforted Peter. "Meanwhile I'm going
to stay with you."
But Joe's cheerfulness was mostly forced. News came early in the day
that Adette Clamart was very close to death, and that Jame and Father
Albanel were constantly at her bedside.
That night sheer exhaustion brought sleep to Peter. He was awakened
by a pounding at the door. Joe's voice called out below and another
answered it from outside. It was Jame Clamart, going from cabin to
cabin in a madness of joy, telling the people of Five Fingers that the
crisis was over and Adette would live.
Peter could hear the running crunch of Jame's boots in the hard snow
as he hurried on to the next neighbor and for a long time after that
he lay awake in the cold darkness of his room, thinking of Mona.
Fear of death had not gripped him so terribly before. In the tragedy
of others he had felt shock; its suddenness and horror had stunned
him and filled him with dread, but the physical grief of it had not
touched him deeply until now. He was sick, but the sickness was in his
heart, as if something had been cut out of it, leaving in its place
an emptiness which made breath come to his lips in smothered sobs. And
that something which had been taken away from him was Mona.
When he closed his eyes he could see her clearly on her white bed, her
long hair streaming about the pillow, her face pinched and thin, and
all the time she was wondering _why he did not come_. She was going to
die; he could think of nothing but that, and after a little one thing
persisted in traveling through his brain so frequently and so terribly
that he called aloud for Joe. The maddening picture was that of Father
Albanel and Simon and Jeremie Poulin marching through the gray dawn to
the burial plot with the bodies of Félipe and Dominique Beauvais.
Joe came up, and for the rest of that night Peter lay in the shelter of
his arm and fell asleep again.
The next day came with good omen. A bright sun rose over the forests,
clearer and warmer than it had been for many weeks. Herman Vogelaar,
whose laughter had gone with the death of his daughter, Geertruda, came
at breakfast time with the word that Adette was entirely out of her
fever, and that Poleon Dufresne's wife and three children were much
better than yesterday. Father Albanel, he said, had spent the last
half of the night with Mona. Mona was very sick. She was worse than
Adette had been, or even Geertruda, in the same length of time. He was
afraid----But Joe gave him such a fierce scowl he did not finish.
Peter saw the scowl and the nervous twisting of Herman's fingers at
the lapels of his coat as he tried to think of something with which
to cover his blunder. He wanted to ask Herman to speak what had been
on his lips, but instead he put on his coat and cap and heavy mittens
and went out into the day, hoping that somewhere he would see Father
Albanel.
As if his hope were a prayer quickly answered, Father Albanel came from
the Gourdon cabin. The little missioner advanced, keeping the wind well
in his face, and when he was fifty paces from Peter he stopped and
called to the boy to stand where he was. Peter tried to speak bravely
when he asked if Mona was going to die.
"She is very sick," said the missioner. "We must pray for her, and
believe with all our might that she is going to get well. I think God
will let her live."
"I promised I'd come if she was sick. I got to keep my word. I'm not
afraid."
Father Albanel shook his head.
"It is impossible, Peter. There are too many of us down now."
"I won't get sick," said Peter doggedly.
Father Albanel spoke sharply. "Keep to your cabin, my boy, and be as
brave as Jame Clamart has been. If Mona grows worse, I will tell you."
Each morning after this he brought news of Mona to Peter. For a week
there seemed to be no change. On the eighth day she was worse; on the
tenth Pierre and Josette and Father Albanel were fighting desperately
to save her life.
The tenth night came. It was past midnight when Peter crept softly to
his window and opened it. With as little sound as he could make he drew
himself through and dropped to the ground. He ran away quickly, the
brilliance of the stars sending his shadow along with him. He did not
stop until he reached the Gourdon cabin, and there he hugged closely
against the log wall, his heart beating wildly as he waited. Above him
a light glowed feebly against the curtain in Mona's room. He wanted to
call to her; he puckered his lips and almost gave the whistling signal
which she knew. Then he heard a sound, a movement of some kind, and
stealthily he approached a lower window. He could see Josette very
clearly. She was seated in a chair with her face bowed in her hands,
and Pierre was standing at her side, gently stroking her hair. Father
Albanel was behind them, his face white and torn with grief. Then Peter
saw that Josette was crying.
A terrible fear gripped him as he drew away from the window. What he
had seen could mean only one thing. Mona--_was gone_. He looked up
at the dim light above him again, and in that moment his soul cried
out against all those who had kept him away from her. He went to the
kitchen door, opened it, and entered. This time he would scream and
fight if they tried to keep him back. But no one heard him. Father
Albanel's voice came to him faintly. He was praying.
Peter reached the stair and went up quietly. The door of Mona's room
was open. A lamp, turned low, was burning on the table.
He approached the bed, scarcely knowing that he was moving toward it.
His heart was crushed, his world crumbled and gone, for Mona must be
dead or they would not leave her like this, and Josette would not be
crying down below. Even his father could not have helped him now.
Nothing could help him, with Mona _gone_. He stumbled to his knees
beside her and his cold fingers twined themselves about the soft braid
of hair that fell over the side of her bed.
A stifled, despairing sob broke from him then as he stared at the thin
face that lay so still and lifeless in the pale light of the room. He
had a great desire to touch it but a moment of dread made him hesitate.
Then his hand crept slowly over the coverlet until it rested against
Mona's cheek, and the sobbing in his throat was choked back, for the
flesh he touched was hot. His heart thumped until the sound of it
seemed to fill the room. Mona's eyes were opening! They were looking at
him! And then----
Two thin, white arms reached up and encircled Peter's neck, and very
faintly he heard his name whispered. He pressed his face down close to
Mona's.
"I'd have come sooner," he apologized, "but they wouldn't let me in!"
And somehow, in that great moment of their lives Peter's lips touched
Mona's, and as the girl's flagging spirit came at last in triumph back
from the edge of death Father Albanel entered the room; and when he saw
what had happened he spoke no word, but in silence made the sign of the
cross upon his breast and stood with his gray head bowed in voiceless
prayer.