and Tom; made a feint at Pat's face with his left hand; and with his
right dealt him a terrific blow at the corner of the jaw below the left
ear. Pat fell to the ground, and lay unconscious among the ferns; while
a struggle went on about him that he would have given his right arm to
have seen.
Instantly Pamphile and Tom fastened upon Jean like mastiffs upon a bear
at bay. Both were strong men; but Jean shook them off, and tried to
close with one alone. More wary now, they circled about him, out of
reach of his powerful hands; but presently he regained the path, stood
with his back to the rock, and they feared to come near.
"Come on, boys!" said he, with a grim smile. "I am waiting for you."
"Come on yourself, damn you!" yelled Tom Sullivan.
"All right, Tom; I am coming. You first, my friend," said Jean, as he
advanced slowly upon Tom; keeping an eye and an arm for Pamphile, who
was about to take him in the rear. This time Tom, who was one of the
best fighters in the parish, stood his ground; exchanged a feint or two
with Jean; and then, nimbly evading a blow that should have felled him
to the earth, he suddenly whirled; his body sank; his feet rose in the
air, one after the other; and he delivered a furious kick at his enemy's
head, the terrible savate, with which he had been known to split open an
adversary's skull, and which, in the lumber woods, had won him the title
of "Terror of the Gatineau." The fight would have ended then and there,
but that Jean, who had been expecting the attack, swerved a trifle to
one side; seized the lower foot, as it rose; and allowed Tom to fall by
his own momentum on head and shoulders with such force as to drive the
breath from his body and to leave him stunned upon the ground. Thus,
frequently, the savate, if not successfully delivered, brings
destruction to him who launches the blow.
As Tom fell, Jean received a blow at the back of the head that sent him
to his knees; as he sprang to his feet he took another that made him
reel; but the third blow he parried; also the fourth; and then he began
to counter with such effect as to put Pamphile wholly on the defensive;
and forced him back, step by step, now on the path, now trampling among
the ferns, down to the stream and up the slope on the other side, until
they stood upon the very spot where Pamphile, in the presence of
Gabrielle, had been struck in the face and wounded in the soul.
"Here is the place. Well, Pamphile, have you had enough?"
Pamphile made no reply, but glared in futile rage, while his right hand
still clutched the whip with which he had planned to take revenge.
"Ah, the little whip!" said Jean. "And you would like to strike me in
the face? Well, you shall do so."
"What?" exclaimed Pamphile, in astonishment.
"I struck you in the face," said Jean, in a calm, even voice, "instead
of killing you; and if it would be a satisfaction to you to strike me in
return you may do it. Now--begin!"
A peculiar expression, as of a rat driven into a corner, came into the
face of Pamphile, as he slowly raised the whip.
At this moment a shrill cry rang out through the woods--a woman's voice.
"Oh! Oh! Jean! Take care! Behind you! Look! Look!"
The warning came too late; for Pamphile, dropping the whip, sprang at
Jean's throat; while Tom, who had crept up like a cat, seized him from
behind; and together they bore him to the ground.
There they twisted, writhed and lashed about for moments that were like
hours; but soon were still, for Jean was upon his knees; and then he
rose, slowly, steadily, until he stood erect, with Pamphile still
hanging to his throat, and Tom's strong arms clasped about his body.
They were resting, as it seemed, taking breath for the final struggle;
but presently nerve and muscle were tense again; the strain was on; they
swayed to and fro, trampling the ferns, staggering against the trees,
and all the while moving down the slope toward the stony bed of the
stream. Pamphile and Tom, seeing this, and realizing that Jean meant to
fall on them there, made a tremendous effort; and once more dragged him
down. Then Jean, putting forth all of his great strength, rolled over
and over down the slope; while his enemies, like bulldogs, hung on, now
above, now beneath, until they all lay together in the stream, among the
boulders and pebbles that in ages past had broken from the mountains and
had been worn smooth by the incessant action of falling water. Pamphile
lay beneath the weight of two men; but still his fingers clutched the
throat of Jean, and slowly tightened until he could hardly breathe.
"Pamphile," he whispered, "let go, or I will kill you."
The grip tightened, Jean was being strangled to death.
With a last effort he rose to his knees, seized the head of Pamphile
that was pressed against his breast, forced it back until it touched one
of the large, smooth pebbles; and then, with a sudden jerk, cracked it
like a nut against the rock. The head lay there with staring eyes and
open mouth; the body relaxed; but still the fingers held their grip; and
it was with difficulty that Jean released his throat from the dying
grasp.
The fight was over. Jean staggered to his feet, in great distress of
body and mind, his face all covered with blood and bruises; and turned
to Tom, who still clung to him, looking up with expression of mingled
hate and fear.
"Tom!"
"By God, I'll kill you yet," muttered Tom, making a last and futile
effort.
"No!" said Jean, putting his hand on Tom's head, and pressing back the
elastic curls of bright red hair. "No, Tom, old man, let us have no more
killing. Oh, why did we do it, Tom, my friend?"
The terror fled from Tom's soul; the hate and anger too; and as he
looked up at Jean's battered, sorrowful face, he broke down and wept
like a child.
"Oh, my God, my God!" he moaned. "Why did we do it? Pamphile dead; Pat
dead; and I, I might as well be dead too. My God! My God!"
"Pat is not dead, Tom. I hear him, I think. Yes, there he comes.
Thank God. Pat is all right, Tom, and you are all right too. Brace up,
old man. But Pamphile? _Mon Dieu_! What have I done? Tom, I am going
away. You will look after Pamphile--you and Pat. There will be some
expense--I will pay it. And the mail contract----"
"Damn the mail contract!"
"But no, Tom; it is yours now. You will drive the mail to-morrow, will
you not? The mail must go--Her Majesty's Mail."
"Yes, I will do it, Jean; but it will be yours when you come back."
"I am not coming back, Tom. Good-bye."
"Jean Baptiste," said Tom, grasping the extended hand, "you have been
damn good to us that have been damn mean to you, and it's damn sorry I
am for all our damned cussedness. Come back soon, and we'll be good
neighbours and friends, by God, we will."
As Jean strode along toward his home he saw Blanchette by the path,
weeping bitterly.
"Ah, Blanchette, it is you. And you saw it all."
"Not all, Jean. I was too much afraid, and I hid behind the rock. Oh,
why did I not stop it? _Mon Dieu_, but it was terrible! You are a hero,
Jean Baptiste."
"No, Blanchette, far from it. A brute, rather, a species of tiger. At
one time I would gladly have killed them all, and drunk their blood.
_Mon Dieu_, what an uprising from the depths! But now that has passed;
and the man, the Christian, is sorry for the deeds of the brute; But you
do not understand such things, Blanchette."
"No? You think not? Ah, if it were only so. But I, too, have my
struggles, my conflicts. But oh, Jean, you are hurt! Ah, my poor Jean,
he can hardly walk. Lie down here, on the cool moss, and I will fetch
some water from the stream. Ah, _Mon Dieu_! _Mon Dieu_!"
"No, I am all right. A little dizziness--that was all. It is gone now,
and I must go. No, Blanchette, it is not I who need you, but Pamphile
down there. For me, I could not touch him. Ah, the poor fellow! A
strong man and brave; yes, brave to the last. _Adieu_, Blanchette."
"_Adieu!_" said Blanchette, going away; and then she turned, suddenly,
fiercely:
"Jean!"
"What is it, Blanchette?"
"Nothing," she said, as she turned away down the path. "There was
something, but I have forgotten. _Adieu_, my friend. May God keep you."
*CHAPTER XXII*
*THE WILDERNESS*
"Misery loves company," they say. How true and yet how false! The
miserable seek society as they take to drink, that they may forget their
sorrow; but those who are sore hurt, with a pain that cannot be
forgotten, a grief that will not be put aside, creep away to die, or to
be alone, until the cruel wound is healed. They seek the solitary
places, where they may have the silent sympathy of the stars, the
unuttered consolation of the desert, the healing virtue of the
wilderness; where they may renew their strength at the fountain of life,
or return the worn-out body to Mother Earth, and the tired spirit to
Father God.
So Jean Baptiste, failure, good-for-nothing, who had come to the end of
all his efforts, had seen the ruin of all his hopes; humiliated,
discouraged, deserted by lover and friend, despised and rejected, with
the brand of Cain upon his forehead; fled from the dwellings of men to
the solitude of the forest, to be alone with his wounded spirit, to
fight alone the grim battle with the dark angels of grief, regret,
remorse, and despair.
Within a stone's-throw of his mother's door was the edge of the great
Laurentian forest, stretching northward without a break to the
settlements of the Saguenay and Lake St. John, and thence north and
north-west to the barren wastes of Labrador and the rocky shores of
Hudson's Bay. In that vast region are lonely places where trappers and
Indians seldom pass and lumbermen have blazed no trail. There moose and
caribou roam undisturbed; there giant pines grow on virgin hillsides;
there lie lakes on which no canoe has ever floated; and there bloom
flowers that are never seen by mortal eye. It is a retreat where one
may be alone; a sanctuary where no enemy may come; a wilderness where
one may be lost; but where one may find paths of peace, rest by still
waters, restoration for the soul, and a meeting-place with God.
As Jean Baptiste, hunter and trapper now, with a pack on his back and a
rifle in his hand, plunged into the forest, and the trees received him
with open arms, the people and things that he had known seemed to go
into the background of consciousness like the unreal images of a dream.
It was as though he had died, and was awaking in a place where there
were no people, but only trees and underbrush, ferns and moss, wild
grasses and flowers, soft black soil underfoot, and a canopy of leaves
overhead, with openings here and there, through which he could see the
blue sky and white, fleecy clouds. The air was fragrant with moist,
earthy odours, and the scent of flowers and leaves. Not a sound was
heard, save now and then the call of a bird, the chatter of a squirrel,
or the crackle of a breaking twig. So sudden and complete was the
change that Jean thought of himself as another person, seeking refuge in
a new world, but ever pursued by the avenger, his former self, whom he
was vainly trying to leave behind.
On he went through the cool woods; winding about among the trees,
clambering over rocks and fallen timber, and all the while going up the
mountain-side, until a precipice rose before him, a wall of granite
where there was no foothold, but only crannies here and there, with a
tuft of grass or a sprig of fern growing in a handful of soil. Jean did
not see that it was an impassable barrier; but set himself to it with
blind force; went up a little way; and then fell, torn and bleeding, to
the ground. Presently he took a new path, skirted the rock until he
found a place where trees and shrubs could grow; and here he climbed,
though with great difficulty, to the very top. It was a good omen, this
victory after defeat; and it was with no little satisfaction that he
stood upon the rocky crown of the mountain looking down on the valley
below.
How small everything looked from an elevation of a thousand feet! The
dwellings and barns were like dolls' houses; the cattle like mice; the
chickens and ducks like flies; and all went about without a sound, like
puppets in a pantomine. Driving along the road at a snail's pace, and
raising a little cloud of dust, were a tiny horse and cart with a
mannikin in the seat holding invisible reins in one hand and an
invisible whip in the other. It was Bonhomme Gagnon, going to market
with his butter and cheese, his potatoes and turnips. What a foolish
little midget, with his pompous air, his absurd swagger and his boastful
talk! And the other neighbours were much the same--tiny insects buzzing
about in the sunlight of a summer's day, soon to be drowned in the rain
or nipped by the early frost. Was it for the good opinion of creatures
such as these that one should plan and work? Glory, fame--what were
they? To hear one's name pronounced by the lips of men; to see them
stare and gape as one passed by; and after that silence, and the pall of
night. It was not worth while. Nothing was worth while but to escape
from the world, to bury oneself in the forest, to ascend some high place
whence one could look down and see the pettiness of everything--and then
to go away and forget.
It should be easy to forget. One had only to ascend another thousand
feet, and all those objects would disappear from sight, or one could
turn away, plunge into the forest, and they would be gone. Thus one
could at will obliterate the past, annihilate the world. True, but that
would only bring them back again; for to the inward vision they would be
as large as ever, prominent, imposing, dominant. When the former life
was out of sight it was by no means out of mind. When the eyes were
closed, the absent ones, friends and enemies, would return and take
their accustomed places. To banish them would be to commit a species of
suicide, a mutilation of the soul, like cutting off a hand or plucking
out an eye. No, he who would have the fulness of life must forget
nothing; and he who would be brave must not only face the future with
courage, but look with steadfast eye upon the past. Thus Jean Baptiste,
as he stood on the mountain-top, in view of his old home, allowed his
former self to overtake him, and together they went on their way.
Jean made his way over the crest of the mountain, and down the northern
slope, into a densely wooded valley, pushing through the thick fringe of
alders that bordered the stream, floundering in a maze of swamps and
beaver ponds, stepping lightly over carpets of thick, yielding moss in
the shade of cedars and tamaracks, climbing up again among the beeches
and maples of the middle slopes, the pines and spruces of the higher
ridges, until he stood on the summit of a second range that overtopped
all the southern hills. Looking back he saw beneath him a sea of hills
and valleys, with the edge of a clearing showing here and there; while
far away and beyond were the flats of Beauport, the great river, and the
spires and roofs of Quebec shining in the morning sun. The gleaming
light seemed to beckon, to call him back to a life and work that should
lead in the end to the city, the centre of civilisation, the lure and
reward of all worthy effort; but the spirit of the woods was strong
within him, and he turned his back upon the achievements of industry and
commerce, and all the idols of the market-place, and set his face once
more toward the wilderness.
For many hours Jean marched along through the woods, steadily going
northward toward the height of land that divides the waters flowing into
the St. Lawrence from those that go into Lake St. John and the Saguenay;
until at sunset he stood upon a low ridge and saw at his feet, in a
hollow between the hills, the lake toward which he had been moving all
the day. He smiled in satisfaction at the feat which he had
accomplished; for he had taken a course across five ranges of mountains,
and kept his direction with such precision that he came out of the
forest within a hundred yards of the cabin that was to be his home.
A few eager steps brought him to the place, and there it was, in a clump
of pines: a little hut of logs well caulked with moss, with a good roof
of hollowed logs, and an excellent chimney of rough stones, a most
unusual luxury in a trapper's cabin. It was the lodge of Michel
Gamache, where he and Jean had spent many happy days; but where other
hunters seldom came, for it was far in the forest, and the way to it was
rough and little known.
The door was on the latch; and Jean went in; laid down his gun and pack;
but immediately came out and took the path toward the lake. For a
moment he turned aside into a dense growth of firs, and presently
appeared again with a birch canoe on his shoulders, which he carried
down to the shelving beach and placed in the water. Then he crept
aboard, knelt in the stern, and with a long stroke of the paddle sent
the light craft far out on the lake.
There was not a ripple on the water but the wavelet in front of the
canoe and the long wake that trailed behind. There was not a living
creature in sight but a pair of loons that floated beyond a rocky islet;
and not a sound but their shrill, quavering cry that echoed and
re-echoed in the hills. The granite rocks along the shore were
reflected perfectly in the water, in all their colours--grey, blue,
pink--and with all their covering of lichen, moss, grass, ferns, and
trees. Birches with their silvery trunks, pines with their long
branches, tall, spire-like spruces were there, pointing upward on the
land and downward in the water; while above and below the trees was the
red glow of sunset, and glorious clouds floated in an azure sky.
Presently the canoe shot into a long, narrow bay, where the shores came
close together; the shadows met; and a panorama of new beauties unrolled
at every turn. Here a flock of wild ducks rose quacking from the water
and flew over the trees; there a long-legged heron stood in a marshy
place among the rushes; there a doe and a half-grown fawn gazed in mild
surprise, then leaped away and vanished in the woods. Suddenly the bay
came to an end where a stream flowed over a steep cliff into a deep,
clear pool; and here Jean stayed for a while, listening to the music of
the waterfall, watching the trout that lurked under the stones, and
wishing for a rod and line that he might try a cast to see what would
rise out of the depths.
Night was coming on as Jean turned the prow of his canoe down the bay;
soon it was quite dark; and only the glimmer of stars on the water and
the dense blackness on either side showed the way. Silently the paddle
rose and fell; and on went the canoe through the darkness; until at the
last turn, where the bay joined the main body of the lake, a bright
light appeared over the trees; and the moon rose, making a shining path
across the water. With powerful strokes Jean shot the canoe along the
bright way to the very end; and plunged again into the shadow near the
shore. Presently the light craft touched the landing-place, where Jean
stepped out, pulled the canoe out of the water, turned it bottom up on
the shore, placed the paddle underneath, and went up to the cabin.
After having fasted all day, Jean was hungry as a bear, and was glad to
find in his pack the food that his good mother had provided. By the
light of a candle he ate his evening meal; and then, spreading his
blankets on a bearskin in the corner, and with his knapsack as a pillow,
he lay down to sleep.
"Ah!" he said to himself, as the tension of muscle and nerve was relaxed
for the first time since the early morning. "How tired I am! I did not
think that I could be so tired. How good it is to rest at the close of
a long day! And such a day! _Mon Dieu_, but it was a day, a good day!"
"What, Jean Baptiste?" said his other self. "A good day, you call it,
when you have fought like a beast and killed a fellow-man, a brother,
one who might have been your friend! Do you know what you are saying?
Wake up, Jean."
"Wake up? But no, I prefer to rest, to sleep--a long, long sleep. And
it was a good day. I have lived. Yes, lived."
"But what of Pamphile?" said his good angel, in a far-away voice.
"Pamphile? Pamphile?" murmured Jean, as he went into the land of
dreams. "That fellow with the pretty face? He got it, did he not? Got
what he deserved. Regret it? No! A good fight! A good day!"
*CHAPTER XXIII*
*THE CURE*
Already the healing power of the wilderness had begun its work, and as
the days passed Jean gradually recovered the tone and balance of mind
that had been so much disturbed. Without knowing it he had been under a
strain for a long time, that tension of brain and nerve so
characteristic of modern life, which the strongest and most ambitious
must endure, when they forsake the old ways and go out into the unknown
to make new paths wherein the feet of generations to come may safely
tread. In the vanguard of progress they do the work of pioneers; in
breaking new ground they are themselves broken; and the army of
civilisation marches on over their graves.
But Jean Baptiste had left his place in the front rank, and gone to the
rear, to the very remotest rear, where there were no people and neither
sight nor sound of war, where the forest was his hospital and Nature his
physician. What wonder that he grew to love the quiet retreat, and to
wish that he might never hear the battle-call again?
By night he slept a dreamless sleep, undisturbed by the cry of the loon,
the hoot of the owl, the wail of the lynx, or any call of birds or
beasts that hunt by night. He was up with the dawn, and out in the open,
refreshed and strong, with bright eyes and a joyous heart, breathing the
fragrant morning air, rejoicing in the free movement of every limb, his
whole being expanding in the growing light, and leaping up to meet the
rising sun.
To Jean the wilderness was as the garden of the Lord. All the trees that
he loved were there, all the wild flowers of the season, with ferns and
mosses of many kinds; there were bubbling springs and clear streams,
shallow ponds and deep lakes, dense thickets and open glades, narrow
glens and broad valleys, low ridges and high mountains, whence he could
look out upon a sea of forest-clad hills stretching away and beyond to
meet the circle of the sky.
But it was the lake by the cabin that Jean loved most of all, and there
he spent many hours of every day in his birch canoe; plying long strokes
of the paddle; skimming along here and there; exploring creeks and bays
or floating in the shade of a rocky point, at the mouth of a stream or
by a sunken log, while he cast a fly upon the water to lure the wary
trout. When the lake was calm he could see not only the rocks and trees
of the shore, but his own thoughts and feelings reflected there; for it
was a mirror to his soul. When a wind came up and ruffled the surface
with little dancing waves, his thoughts seemed to dance and sparkle in
their turn; and he would sing the song of the voyageur to the hum of the
breeze and the lapping of the waves. When a white squall came, raising
great waves capped with foam, the soul of Jean Baptiste was stirred to
its depths and rose up to meet the foe; as with a strong grip on the
tough paddle he held the canoe to the wind and rode out the storm;
mounting on the crest of the waves, beating down into the trough,
splashed and buffeted, rocked and tossed; but all the time pushing on
toward the lee shore, where at last he lay in calm water, serenely
watching the tempest as it passed.
Like the human heart, the lake was never twice the same. Even at dawn
it varied with the breeze, the mist, the clouds, the rain, the light of
the waning moon, the gleam of the morning star. All the days were
different, each from the others; so also the nights. Now the lake was a
crystal, now a pearl, now of a pale turquoise blue, now blue like a
sapphire or green as an emerald; and often, at sunset, it was like an
opal with fire in its heart, changing soon to violet and purple tints,
and then taking on the deep indigo of the evening sky, shot with points
and threads of gold. Even on sunless days, when the clouds hung low and
rain fell, there was a pensive beauty in the lake, like the sweet, pale
face of a nun trying to forget the light and love of bygone days in
thinking of the glory that should appear in the eternal world. Truly,
thought Jean, it was good to be in the wilderness, and gladly would he
live and die beside a lake like this.