STANDING FIRE.
The shanty finished, a huge mass of wood cut into convenient lengths and
piled near the door, a smooth road made down to the river-bank, the
store-house filled with barrels of pork and flour and beans and chests of
tea, the stable for the score of horses, put up after much the same
architectural design as the shanty, and then the lumber camp was
complete, and the men were free to address themselves to the business
that had brought them so far.
As Frank looked around him at the magnificent forests into whose heart
they had penetrated, and tried with his eyes to measure the height of the
splendid trees that towered above his head on every side, he found
himself touched with a feeling of sympathy for them--as if it seemed a
shame to humble the pride of those silvan monarchs by bringing them
crashing to the earth. And then this feeling gave way to another; and as
he watched the expert choppers swinging their bright axes in steady
rhythm, and adding wound to wound in the gaping trunk so skilfully that
the defenceless monster fell just where they wished, his heart thrilled
with pride at man's easy victory over nature, and he longed to seize an
axe himself and attack the forest on his own account.
He had plenty of axe work as it was, but of a much more prosaic kind.
An important part of his duty consisted in keeping up the great fire
that roared and crackled unceasingly in the caboose. The appetite of this
fire seemed unappeasable, and many a time did his arms and legs grow
weary in ministering to its wants. Sometimes, when all his other work was
done, he would go out to the wood-pile, and selecting the thickest and
toughest-looking logs, arrange them upon the hearth so that they might
take as long as possible to burn; and then, congratulating himself that
he had secured some respite from toil, get out his rifle for a little
practice at a mark, or would open one of the few books he had brought
with him. But it seemed to him he would hardly have more than one shot at
the mark, or get through half-a-dozen pages, before Baptiste's thick
voice would be heard calling out,--
"Francois, Francois! Ver is yer? Some more wood, k'vick!" And with a
groan poor Frank would have to put away the rifle or book and return
to the wood-pile.
"I suppose I'm what the Bible calls a hewer of wood and a drawer of
water," he would say to himself; for hardly less onerous than the task
of keeping the fire in fuel was that of keeping well filled the two
water-barrels that stood on either side of the door--one for the thirsty
shantymen, the other for Baptiste's culinary needs.
The season's work once well started, it went forward with commendable
steadiness and vigour under Foreman Johnston's strict and energetic
management. He was admirably suited for his difficult position. His
grave, reserved manner rendered impossible that familiarity which is so
apt to breed contempt, while his thorough mastery of all the secrets of
woodcraft, his great physical strength, and his absolute fearlessness
in the face of any peril, combined to make him a fit master for the
strangely-assorted half-hundred of men now under his sole control. Frank
held him in profound respect, and would have endured almost anything
rather than seem unmanly or unheedful in his eyes. To win a word of
commendation from those firm-set lips that said so little was the desire
of his heart, and, feeling sure that it would come time enough, he stuck
to his work bravely, quite winning good-natured Baptiste's heart by his
prompt obedience to orders.
"You are a _bon garçon,_ Francois," he would say, patting his shoulder
with his plump palm. "Too good to be chore-boy; but not for long--eh,
Francois? You be chopper _bientôt_, and then"--with an expressive wave of
his hand to indicate the rapid flight of time--"you'll be foreman, like
M'sieur Johnston, while Baptiste"--and the broad shoulders would rise
in that meaning shrug which only Frenchmen can achieve--"poor Baptiste
will be cook still."
Beginning with Johnston and Baptiste, Frank was rapidly making friends
among his companions, and as he was soon to learn, much to his surprise
and sorrow, some enemies too--or, rather, to be more correct, he was
making the friends, but the enemies were making themselves; for he was to
blame in small part, if at all, for their rising against him. There were
all sorts and conditions of men, so far at least as character and
disposition went, among the gang, and the evil element was fitly
represented by a small group of inhabitants who recognized one Damase
Deschenaux as their leader. This Damase made rather a striking figure.
Although he scorned the suggestion as hotly as would a Southern planter
the charge that negro blood darkened his veins, there was no doubt that
some generations back the dusky wife of a _courier du bois_ had mingled
the Indian nature with the French. Unhappily for Damase, the result of
his ancestral error was manifest in him; for, while bearing but little
outward resemblance to his savage progenitor, he was at heart a veritable
Indian.
Greedy, selfish, jealous, treacherous, quick to take offence and slow to
forgive or forget, his presence in the Johnston gang was explained by his
wonderful knowledge of the forest, his sure judgment in selecting good
bunches of timber to be cut, and his intimate acquaintance with the
course of the stream down which the logs would be floated in the spring.
Johnston had no liking for Damase, but found him too valuable to dispense
with. This year, by chance, or possibly by his own management, Damase had
among the gang a number of companions much after his own pattern, and it
was clearly his intention to take the lead in the shanty so far as he
dared venture. When first he saw Frank, and learned that he was to be
with Johnston also, he tried after his own fashion to make friends with
him. But as might be expected, neither the man himself nor his overtures
of friendship impressed Frank favourably. He wanted neither a pull from
his pocket flask nor a chew from his plug of "navy," nor to handle his
greasy cards; and although he declined the offer of all these uncongenial
things as politely as possible, the veritable suspicious, sensitive,
French-Indian nature took offence, which deepened day after day, as he
could not help seeing that Frank was careful to give himself and
companions as wide a berth as he could without being pointedly rude or
offensive.
When one is seeking to gratify evil feelings toward another with whom he
has daily contact, the opportunity is apt to be not long in coming, and
Damase conceived that he had his chance of venting his spite on Frank by
seizing upon the habit of Bible reading and prayer which the lad had as
scrupulously observed in the shanty as if he had been at home. As might
be imagined, he was altogether alone in this good custom, and at first
the very novelty of it had secured him immunity from pointed notice or
comment. But when Damase, thinking he saw in his daily devotions an
opening for his malicious purposes, drew attention to them by jeering
remarks and taunting insinuations, the others, yielding to that natural
tendency to be incensed with any one who seems to assert superior
goodness, were inclined to side with him, or at all events to make no
attempt to interfere.
At first Damase confined himself to making as much noise as possible
while Frank was reading his Bible or saying his prayers, keeping up a
constant fire of remarks that were aimed directly at the much-tried boy,
and which were sometimes clever or impertinent enough to call forth a
hearty laugh from his comrades. But finding that Frank was not to be
overcome by this, he resorted to more active measures. Pretending to be
dancing carelessly about the room he would, as if by accident, bump up
against the object of his enmity, sending the precious book flying on the
floor, or, if Frank was kneeling by his bunk, tripping and tumbling
roughly over his outstretched feet. Another time he knocked the Bible out
of his hands with a well-aimed missile, and, again, covered him with a
heavy blanket as he knelt at prayer.
All this Frank bore in patient silence, hoping in that way to secure
peace in time. But Damase's persecutions showing no signs of ceasing, the
poor lad's self-control began to desert him, and at last the crisis came
one night when, while he was kneeling as usual at the foot of his bunk,
Damase crept up softly behind him, and springing upon his shoulders,
brought him sprawling to the floor. In an instant Frank was on his feet,
and when the others saw his flashing and indignant countenance and
noticed his tight-clinched fists, the roar of laughter that greeted his
downfall was checked half way, and a sudden silence fell upon them. They
all expected him to fly at his tormentor like a young tiger, and Damase
evidently expected it too, for he stepped back a little, and his grinning
face sobered as he assumed a defensive attitude.
But Frank had no thought of striking. That was not his way of defending
his religion, much as he was willing to endure rather than be unfaithful.
Drawing himself up to his full height, and looking a splendid type of
righteous indignation, he commanded the attention of all as in clear,
strong tones, holding his sturdy fists close to his sides as though he
dared not trust them elsewhere, and looking straight into Damase's eyes,
lie exclaimed,--
"Aren't you ashamed to do such an unmanly thing--you, who are twice my
size and age? I have done nothing to you. Why should you torment me? And
just when I want most to be quiet, too!"
Then, turning to the other men with a gesture of appeal that was
irresistible, he cried,--
"Do you think it's fair, fellows, for that man to plague me so when I've
done him no harm? Why don't you stop him? You can do it easy enough. He's
nothing but a big coward."
Frank's anger had risen as he spoke, and this last sentence slipped out
before he had time to stop it. No sooner was it uttered than he regretted
it; but the bolt had been shot, and it went straight to its mark. While
Frank had been speaking, Damase was too keen of sight and sense not to
notice that the manly speech and fine self-control of the boy were
causing a quick revulsion of feeling in his hearers, and that unless
diverted they would soon be altogether on his side, and the taunt he had
just flung out awoke a deep murmur of applause which was all that was
needed to inflame his passion to the highest pitch. The Frenchman looked
the very incarnation of fury as, springing towards Frank with uplifted
fist, he hissed, rather cried, through his gleaming teeth,--
"Coward! I teach you call me coward."
Stepping back a little, Frank threw up his arms in a posture of defence;
for he was not without knowledge of what is so oddly termed "the noble
art."
But before the blow fell an unlooked-for intervention relieved him from
the danger that threatened.
The foreman, when the shanty was being built, had the farther right-hand
corner partitioned off so as to form a sort of cabin just big enough
to contain his bunk, his chest, and a small rude table on which lay
the books in which he kept his accounts and made memoranda, and some
half-dozen volumes that constituted his library. In this nook, shut off
from the observation and society of the others, yet able to overhear and,
if he chose to open the door, to oversee also all that went on in the
larger room, Johnston spent, his evenings poring over his books by the
light of a tallow candle, the only other light in the room being that
given forth by the ever-blazing fire.
Owing to this separation from the others, Johnston had been unaware of
the manner in which Frank had been tormented, as it was borne so
uncomplainingly. But this time Frank's indignant speech, followed so
fast by Damase's angry retort, told him plainly that there was need of
his interference. He emerged from his corner just at the moment when
Damase was ready to strike. One glance at the state of affairs was
enough. Damase's back was turned toward him. With a swift spring, that
startled the others as if he had fallen through the roof, he darted
forward, and ere the French-Canadian's fist could reach its mark a
resistless grasp was laid upon his collar, and, swung clear off his feet,
he was flung staggering across the room as though he had been a mere
child.
"You Indian dog!" growled Johnston, in his fiercest tones, "what are you
about? Don't let me catch you tormenting that boy again!"