Produced by David Widger
THE TRAIL OF THE SWORD, Complete
By Gilbert Parker
CONTENTS:
EPOCH THE FIRST
I. AN ENVOY EXTRAORDINARY
II. THE THREAT OF A RENEGADE
III. THE FACE AT THE WINDOW
IV. THE UPLIFTING OF THE SWORDS
V. THE FRUITS OF THE LAW
VI. THE KIDNAPPING
EPOCH THE SECOND
VII. FRIENDS IN COUNCIL
VIII. AS SEEN THROUGH A GLASS, DARKLY
IX. TO THE PORCH OF THE WORLD
X. QUI VIVE!
XI. WITH THE STRANGE PEOPLE
XII. OUT OF THE NET
EPOCH THE THIRD
XIII. “AS WATER UNTO WINE”
XIV. IN WHICH THE HUNTERS ARE OUT
XV. IN THE MATTER OF BUCKLAW
XVI. IN THE TREASURE HOUSE
XVII. THE GIFT OF A CAPTIVE
XVIII. MAIDEN NO MORE
EPOCH THE FOURTH
XIX. WHICH TELLS OF A BROTHER’S BLOOD CRYING FROM THE GROUND
XX. A TRAP IS SET
XXI. AN UNTOWARD MESSENGER
XXII. FROM TIGER’S CLAW TO LION’S MOUTH
XXIII. AT THE GATES OF MISFORTUNE
XXIV. IN WHICH THE SWORD IS SHEATHED
CONTENTS:
EPOCH THE FIRST I. AN ENVOY EXTRAORDINARY II. THE THREAT OF A RENEGADE
III. THE FACE AT THE WINDOW IV. THE UPLIFTING OF THE SWORDS V. THE
FRUITS OF THE LAW VI. THE KIDNAPPING
EPOCH THE SECOND VII. FRIENDS IN COUNCIL VIII. AS SEEN THROUGH A GLASS,
DARKLY IX. TO THE PORCH OF THE WORLD X. QUI VIVE! XI. WITH THE STRANGE
PEOPLE XII. OUT OF THE NET
EPOCH THE THIRD XIII. “AS WATER UNTO WINE” XIV. IN WHICH THE HUNTERS ARE
OUT XV. IN THE MATTER OF BUCKLAW XVI. IN THE TREASURE HOUSE XVII. THE
GIFT OF A CAPTIVE XVIII. MAIDEN NO MORE
EPOCH THE FOURTH XIX. WHICH TELLS OF A BROTHER’S BLOOD CRYING FROM THE
GROUND XX. A TRAP IS SET XXI. AN UNTOWARD MESSENGER XXII. FROM TIGER’S
CLAW TO LION’S MOUTH XXIII. AT THE GATES OF MISFORTUNE XXIV. IN WHICH
THE SWORD IS SHEATHED
WHEREIN IS SET FORTH THE HISTORY OF JESSICA LEVERET, AS ALSO THAT OF
PIERRE LE MOYNE OF IBERVILLE, GEORGE GERING, AND OTHER BOLD SPIRITS;
TOGETHER WITH CERTAIN MATTERS OF WAR, AND THE DEEDS OF ONE EDWARD
BUCKLAW, MUTINEER AND PIRATE DEDICATION
My Dear Father:
Once, many years ago, in a kind of despair, you were impelled to say
that I would “never be anything but a rascally lawyer.” This, it
may be, sat upon your conscience, for later you turned me gravely
towards Paley and the Thirty-nine Articles; and yet I know that in
your deepest soldier’s heart, you really pictured me, how
unavailingly, in scarlet and pipe-clay, and with sabre, like
yourself in youth and manhood. In all I disappointed you, for I
never had a brief or a parish, and it was another son of yours who
carried on your military hopes. But as some faint apology--I almost
dare hope some recompense for what must have seemed wilfulness, I
send you now this story of a British soldier and his “dear maid,”
which has for its background the old city of Quebec, whose high
ramparts you walked first sixty years ago; and for setting, the
beginning of those valiant fightings, which, as I have heard you
say, “through God’s providence and James Wolfe, gave England her
best possession.”
You will, I feel sure, quarrel with the fashion of my campaigns, and
be troubled by my anachronisms; but I beg you to remember that long
ago you gave my young mind much distress when you told that
wonderful story, how you, one man, “surrounded” a dozen enemies, and
drove them prisoners to headquarters. “Surrounded” may have been
mere lack of precision, but it serves my turn now, as you see. You
once were--and I am precise here--a gallant swordsman: there are
legends yet of your doings with a crack Dublin bully. Well, in the
last chapter of this tale you shall find a duel which will perhaps
recall those early days of this century, when your blood was hot and
your hand ready. You would be distrustful of the details of this
scene, did I not tell you that, though the voice is Jacob’s the hand
is another’s. Swordsmen are not so many now in the army or out of
it, that, among them, Mr. Walter Herrim Pollock’s name will have
escaped you: so, if you quarrel, let it be with Esau; though, having
good reason to be grateful to him, that would cause me sorrow.
My dear father, you are nearing the time-post of ninety years, with
great health and cheerfulness; it is my hope you may top the arch of
your good and honourable life with a century key-stone.
Believe me, sir,
Your affectionate son,
GILBERT PARKER.
15th September, 1894, 7 Park Place,
St. James’s S.W.
INTRODUCTION
THE TRAIL OF THE SWORD
This book, like Mrs. Falchion, was published in two volumes in January.
That was in 1894. It appeared first serially in the Illustrated London
News, for which paper, in effect, it was written, and it also appeared
in a series of newspapers in the United States during the year 1893.
This was a time when the historical novel was having its vogue. Mr.
Stanley Weyman, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, and a good many others were
following the fashion, and many of the plays at the time were also
historical--so-called. I did not write The Trail of the Sword because it
was in keeping with the spirit of the moment. Fashion has never in the
least influenced my writing or my literary purposes. Whatever may be
thought of my books, they represent nothing except my own bent of mind,
my own wilful expression of myself, and the setting forth of that which
seized my imagination.
I wrote The Trail of the Sword because the early history of the
struggles between the French and English and the North American
Continent interested me deeply and fascinated my imagination. Also, I
had a most intense desire to write of the Frenchman of the early days
of the old regime; and I have no idea why it was so, because I have no
French blood in my veins nor any trace of French influence in my family.
There is, however, the Celtic strain, the Irish blood, immediate of the
tang, as it were, and no doubt a sympathy between the Celtic and the
Gallic strain is very near, and has a tendency to become very dear. It
has always been a difficulty for me to do anything except show the more
favourable side of French character and life.
I am afraid that both in The Trail of the Sword, which was the
forerunner of The Seats of the Mighty, the well sunk, in a sense, out of
which the latter was drawn, I gave my Frenchman the advantage over
his English rival. In The Trail of the Sword, the gallant French
adventurer’s chivalrous but somewhat merciless soul, makes a better
picture than does his more phlegmatic but brave and honourable
antagonist, George Gering. Also in The Seats of the Mighty, Doltaire,
the half-villain, overshadows the good English hero from first to last;
and yet, despite the unconscious partiality for the individual in both
books, English character and the English as a race, as a whole, are
dominant in the narrative.
There is a long letter, as a dedication to this book, addressed to my
father; there is a note also, which explains the spirit in which the
book was written, and I have no desire to enlarge this introduction in
the presence of these prefaces to the first edition. But I may say that
this book was gravely important to me, because it was to test all my
capacity for writing a novel with an historical background, and, as
it were, in the custom of a bygone time. It was not really the first
attempt at handling a theme belonging to past generations, because I
had written for Good Words, about the year 1890, a short novel which I
called The Chief Factor, a tale of the Hudson’s Bay Company. It was
the first novel or tale of mine which secured copyright under the new
American copyright act of 1892.
There was a circumstance connected with this publication which is
interesting. When I arrived in New York, I had only three days in which
to have the book printed in order to secure the copyright before Good
Words published the novel as its Christmas annual in its entirety. I
tried Messrs. Harper & Brothers, and several other publishers by turn,
but none of them could undertake to print the book in the time. At last
some kind friend told me to go to the Trow Directory Binding Company,
which I did. They said they could not print the story in the time. I
begged them to reconsider. I told them how much was at stake for me. I
said that I would stay in the office and read the proofs as they came
from the press, and would not move until it was finished. Refusal had
been written on the lips and the face of the manager at the beginning,
but at last I prevailed. He brought the foreman down there and then.
Each of us, elated by the conditions of the struggle, determined to pull
the thing off. We printed that book of sixty-five thousand words or so,
in forty-eight hours, and it arrived in Washington three hours before
the time was up. I saved the copyright, and I need hardly say that my
gratitude to the Trow Directory Binding Company was as great as their
delight in having done a really brilliant piece of work.
The day after the copyright was completed, I happened to mention the
incident to Mr. Archibald Clavering Gunter, author of Mr. Barnes of New
York, who had a publishing house for his own books. He immediately
made me an offer for The Chief Factor. I hesitated, because I had been
dealing with great firms like Harpers, and, to my youthful mind, it
seemed rather beneath my dignity to have the imprint of so new a firm
as the Home Publishing Company on the title-page of my book. I asked the
advice of Mr. Walter H. Page, then editor of The Forum, now one of the
proprietors of The World’s Work and Country Life, and he instantly said:
“What difference does it make who publishes your book? It is the public
you want.”
I did not hesitate any longer. The Chief Factor went to Mr. Archibald
Clavering Gunter and the Home Publishing Company, and they made a very
large sale of it. I never cared for the book however; it seemed
stilted and amateurish, though some of its descriptions and some of its
dialogues were, I think, as good as I can do; so, eventually, in the
middle nineties, I asked Mr. Gunter to sell me back the rights in the
book and give me control of it. This he did. I thereupon withdrew it
from publication at once, and am not including it in this subscription
edition. I think it better dead. But the writing of it taught me better
how to write The Trail of the Sword; though, if I had to do this book
again, I could construct it better.
I think it fresh and very vigorous, and I think it does not lack
distinction, while a real air of romance--of refined romance--pervades
it. But I know that Mr. W. E. Henley was right when, after most
generously helping me to revise it, with a true literary touch
wonderfully intimate and affectionate, he said to me: “It is just not
quite big, but the next one will get home.”
He was right. The Trail of the Sword is “just not quite,” though I think
it has charm; but it remained for The Seats of the Mighty to get home,
as “W. E. H.”, the most exacting, yet the most generous, of critics,
said.
This book played a most important part in a development of my literary
work, and the warm reception by the public--for in England it has
been through its tenth edition, and in America through proportionate
thousands--was partly made possible by the very beautiful illustrations
which accompanied its publication in The Illustrated London News.
The artist was A. L. Forestier, and never before or since has my work
received such distinguished pictorial exposition, save, perhaps, in
The Weavers, when Andre Castaigne did such triumphant work. It is a
joy still to look at the illustrations of The Trail of the Sword, for,
absolutely faithful to the time, they add a note of verisimilitude to
the tale.
A NOTE
The actors in this little drama played their parts on the big stage of
a new continent two hundred years ago. Despots sat upon the thrones of
France and England, and their representatives on the Hudson and the St.
Lawrence were despots too, with greater opportunity and to better ends.
In Canada, Frontenac quarreled with his Intendant and his Council, set a
stern hand upon the Church when she crossed with his purposes, cajoled,
treated with, and fought the Indians by turn, and cherished a running
quarrel with the English Governor of New York. They were striving for
the friendship of the Iroquois on the one hand, and for the trade of
the Great West on the other. The French, under such men as La Salle, had
pushed their trading posts westward to the great lakes and beyond the
Missouri, and north to the shores of Hudson’s Bay. They traded and
fought and revelled, hot with the spirit of adventure, the best of
pioneers and the worst of colonists. Tardily, upon their trail, came the
English and the Dutch, slow to acquire but strong to hold; not so rash
in adventure, nor so adroit in intrigue, as fond of fighting, but with
less of the gift of the woods, and much more the faculty for government.
There was little interchange of friendliness and trade between the rival
colonists; and Frenchmen were as rare on Manhattan Island as Englishmen
on the heights of Quebec--except as prisoners.
G. P.
THE TRAIL OF THE SWORD
EPOCH THE FIRST I. AN ENVOY EXTRAORDINARY II. THE THREAT OF A RENEGADE
III. THE FACE AT THE WINDOW IV. THE UPLIFTING OF THE SWORDS V. THE
FRUITS OF THE LAW VI. THE KIDNAPPING
CHAPTER I
AN ENVOY EXTRAORDINARY
One summer afternoon a tall, good-looking stripling stopped in the midst
of the town of New York, and asked his way to the governor’s house. He
attracted not a little attention, and he created as much astonishment
when he came into the presence of the governor. He had been announced
as an envoy from Quebec. “Some new insolence of the County Frontenac!”
cried old Richard Nicholls, bringing his fist down on the table. For a
few minutes he talked with his chamberfellow; then, “Show the gentleman
in,” he added. In the room without, the envoy from Quebec had stood
flicking the dust from his leggings with a scarf. He was not more than
eighteen, his face had scarcely an inkling of moustache, but he had an
easy upright carriage, with an air of self-possession, the keenest of
grey eyes, a strong pair of shoulders, a look of daring about his rather
large mouth, which lent him a manliness well warranting his present
service. He had been left alone, and the first thing he had done was
to turn on his heel and examine the place swiftly. This he seemed to do
mechanically, not as one forecasting danger, not as a spy. In the
curve of his lips, in an occasional droop of his eyelids, there was a
suggestion of humour: less often a quality of the young than of the old.
For even in the late seventeenth century, youth took itself seriously at
times.
Presently, as he stood looking at the sunshine through the open door,
a young girl came into the lane of light, waved her hand, with a little
laugh, to some one in the distance, and stepped inside. At first she did
not see him. Her glances were still cast back the way she had come.
The young man could not follow her glance, nor was he anything curious.
Young as he was, he could enjoy a fine picture. There was a pretty
demureness in the girl’s manner, a warm piquancy in the turn of the
neck, and a delicacy in her gestures, which to him, fresh from hard
hours in the woods, was part of some delightful Arcady--though Arcady
was more in his veins than of his knowledge. For the young seigneur of
New France spent far more hours with his gun than with his Latin, and
knew his bush-ranging vassal better than his tutor; and this one was too
complete a type of his order to reverse its record. He did not look to
his scanty lace, or set himself seemingly; he did but stop flicking the
scarf held loose in his fingers, his foot still on the bench. A smile
played at his lips, and his eyes had a gleam of raillery. He heard
the girl say in a soft, quaint voice, just as she turned towards him,
“Foolish boy!” By this he knew that the pretty picture had for its
inspiration one of his own sex.
She faced him, and gave a little cry of surprise. Then their eyes met.
Immediately he made the most elaborate bow of all his life, and she
swept a graceful courtesy. Her face was slightly flushed that this
stranger should have seen, but he carried such an open, cordial look
that she paused, instead of hurrying into the governor’s room, as she
had seemed inclined to do.
In the act the string of her hat, slung over her arm, came loose, and
the hat fell to the floor. Instantly he picked it up and returned it.
Neither had spoken a word. It seemed another act of the light pantomime
at the door. As if they had both thought on the instant how droll it
was, they laughed, and she said to him naively: “You have come to visit
the governor? You are a Frenchman, are you not?”
To this in slow and careful English, “Yes,” he replied; “I have come
from Canada to see his excellency. Will you speak French?”
“If you please, no,” she answered, smiling; “your English is better
than my French. But I must go.” And she turned towards the door of the
governor’s room.
“Do not go yet,” he said. “Tell me, are you the governor’s daughter?”
She paused, her hand at the door. “Oh no,” she answered; then, in a
sprightly way--“are you a governor’s son?”
“I wish I were,” he said, “for then there’d be a new intendant, and we’d
put Nick Perrot in the council.”
“What is an intendant?” she asked, “and who is Nick Perrot?”
“Bien! an intendant is a man whom King Louis appoints to worry the
governor and the gentlemen of Canada, and to interrupt the trade.
Nicolas Perrot is a fine fellow, and a great coureur du bois, and helps
to get the governor out of troubles to-day, the intendant to-morrow. He
is a splendid fighter. Perrot is my friend.”
He said this, not with an air of boasting, but with a youthful and
enthusiastic pride, which was relieved, by the twinkle in his eyes and
his frank manner.
“Who brought you here?” she asked demurely. “Are they inside with the
governor?”
He saw the raillery; though, indeed, it was natural to suppose that he
had no business with the governor, but had merely come with some one.
The question was not flattering. His hand went up to his chin a little
awkwardly. She noted how large yet how well-shaped it was, or, rather,
she remembered afterwards. Then it dropped upon the hilt of the rapier
he wore, and he answered with good self-possession, though a little hot
spot showed on his cheek: “The governor must have other guests who are
no men of mine; for he keeps an envoy from Count Frontenac long in his
anteroom.”
The girl became very youthful indeed, and a merry light danced in her
eyes and warmed her cheek. She came a step nearer. “It is not so? You do
not come from Count Frontenac--all alone, do you?”
“I’ll tell you after I have told the governor,” he answered, pleased and
amused.
“Oh, I shall hear when the governor hears,” she answered, with a soft
quaintness, and then vanished into the governor’s chamber. She had
scarce entered when the door opened again, and the servant, a Scotsman,
came out to say that his excellency would receive him. He went briskly
forward, but presently paused. A sudden sense of shyness possessed him.
It was not the first time he had been ushered into vice-regal presence,
but his was an odd position. He was in a strange land, charged with an
embassy which accident had thrust upon him. Then, too, the presence
of the girl had withdrawn him for an instant from the imminence of his
duty. His youth came out of him, and in the pause one could fairly see
him turn into man.
He had not the dark complexion of so many of his race, but was rather
Saxon in face, with rich curling brown hair. Even in that brave time one
might safely have bespoken for him a large career. And even while the
Scotsman in the doorway eyed him with distant deprecation, as he eyed
all Frenchmen, good and bad, ugly or handsome, he put off his hesitation
and entered the governor’s chamber. Colonel Nicholls came forward to
greet him, and then suddenly stopped, astonished. Then he wheeled upon
the girl. “Jessica, you madcap!” he said in a low voice.
She was leaning against a tall chair, both hands grasping the back of
it, her chin just level with the top. She had told the governor that
Count Frontenac had sent him a lame old man, and that, enemy or none,
he ought not to be kept waiting, with arm in sling and bandaged head.
Seated at the table near her was a grave member of the governor’s
council, William Drayton by name. He lifted a reproving finger at her
now, but with a smile on his kindly face, and “Fie, fie, young lady!” he
said, in a whisper.
Presently the governor mastered his surprise, and seeing that the young
man was of birth and quality, extended his hand cordially enough, and
said: “I am glad to greet you, sir;” and motioned him to a seat. “But,
pray, sit down,” he added, “and let us hear the message Count Frontenac
has sent. Meanwhile we would be favoured with your name and rank.”
The young man thrust a hand into his doublet and drew forth a packet
of papers. As he handed it over, he said in English--for till then the
governor had spoken French, having once served with the army of France,
and lived at the French Court: “Your excellency, my name is Pierre le
Moyne of Iberville, son of Charles le Moyne, a seigneur of Canada, of
whom you may have heard.” (The governor nodded.) “I was not sent by
Count Frontenac to you. My father was his envoy: to debate with you our
trade in the far West and our dealings with the Iroquois.”
“Exactly,” said old William Drayton, tapping the table with his
forefinger; “and a very sound move, upon my soul.”
“Ay, ay,” said the governor, “I know of your father well enough. A good
fighter and an honest gentleman, as they say. But proceed, Monsieur le
Moyne of Iberville.”
“I am called Iberville,” said the young man simply. Then: “My father and
myself started from Quebec with good Nick Perrot, the coureur du bois--”
“I know him too,” the governor interjected--“a scoundrel worth his
weight in gold to your Count Frontenac.”
“For whose head Count Frontenac has offered gold in his time,” answered
Iberville, with a smile.
“A very pretty wit,” said old William Drayton, nodding softly towards
the girl, who was casting bright, quizzical glances at the youth over
the back of the chair.
Iberville went on: “Six days ago we were set upon by a score of your
Indians, and might easily have left our scalps with them; but, as it
chanced, my father was wounded, I came off scot-free, and we had the joy
of ridding your excellency of half a dozen rogues.”
The governor lifted his eyebrows and said nothing. The face of the girl
over against the back of the chair had become grave.
“It was in question whether Perrot or I should bear Count Frontenac’s
message. Perrot knew the way, I did not; Perrot also knew the Indians.”
“But Perrot,” said the governor bluffly, “would have been the
letter-carrier; you are a kind of ambassador. Upon my soul, yes, a sort
of ambassador!” he added, enjoying the idea; for, look at it how you
would, Iberville was but a boy.
“That was my father’s thought and my own,” answered Iberville coolly.
“There was my father to care for till his wound was healed and he could
travel back to Quebec, so we thought it better Perrot should stay with
him. A Le Moyne was to present himself, and a Le Moyne has done so.”
The governor was impressed more deeply than he showed. It was a time
of peace, but the young man’s journey among Indian braves and English
outlaws, to whom a French scalp was a thing of price, was hard and
hazardous. His reply was cordial, then his fingers came to the seal of
the packet; but the girl’s hand touched his arm.
“I know his name,” she said in the governor’s ear, “but he does not know
mine.”
The governor patted her hand, and then rejoined: “Now, now, I forgot the
lady; but I cannot always remember that you are full fifteen years old.”
Standing up, with all due gravity and courtesy, “Monsieur Iberville,” he
said, “let me present you to Mistress Jessica Leveret, the daughter of
my good and honoured and absent friend, the Honourable Hogarth Leveret.”
So the governor and his councillor stood shoulder to shoulder at one
window, debating Count Frontenac’s message; and shoulder to shoulder at
another stood Iberville and Jessica Leveret. And what was between these
at that moment--though none could have guessed it--signified as much to
the colonies of France and England, at strife in the New World, as the
deliberations of their elders.