Part 6

“If I don’t call again, Petrie, and I fully intend to give myself that pleasure, you will understand that I have been prevented by pressing business. This is such an out-of-the-way place, and of course, it is very difficult to get at. Good-bye, and good luck!” Once more he looked back to shout “The weather’s grand!”

Darkness came after the sunshine, and the night followed, but Redpath did not come back. The hours went by, taking with them another day, and silence and loneliness were my meat and drink. When the night came again I understood more clearly as vitality ebbed out of me. I was abandoned to starvation in this old stone ruin of the bush.

CLERICAL ERRORS

I had shouted for hours, as it seemed to me, in the frail hope of guiding some wandering Indian to my prison, until my throat went dry, and my swollen tongue filled my mouth. The loneliness remained unbroken. My wild voice broke against the stone roof, to fall back upon me in fragments of wasted echoes. All this effort was unprofitable; I was doomed. I was a missing man; my little course was to run out in that mysterious ruin, and my bones were to be added to its antiquities.

That which tormented me more than the desire for vengeance, more even than the fear of death, was my utter helplessness--liberty was so near to me. In my normal state I could so easily have jumped to catch the square hole, and so dragged myself out to the roof; but I was pinioned, and my arms, with all their muscle that I had learnt to be proud of, were the first part of me to die.

I sank slowly into a sleep which was not sleep, until a time came when the pale moon lit and stabbed one shivering ray into my prison. I writhed along the ground like some poor beast which has been shot in the hinder part, and bathed my fevered face in that light. Anything for the world again! My eyes were sore, my half-bandaged wounds stabbed me, red spots spun confusedly wherever I looked. I was afraid of the great loneliness, which suggested the more fearful silence I was about to enter. As I sank towards oblivion I prayed for the sound of a voice, even the growl of a beast or a bird-call, even a sad voice from the grave.

I shook off the stupor, and called aloud once more. It was not a shout for help, but a shout of fear. The horror of the great shadow was over me.

The echoes had hardly settled down into the dust before my nerves, strung to a terrible tension, thrilled and started with the shock of a voice, and my ears caught the answering sound of a feeble cry out of the night.

“Rupe! Boy Rupe!”

“MacCaskill,” I muttered in a delirium.

Animal-like scrapings came against the outer wall; a beating upon the stones, a great groan, and then a mad burst of laughter. Soon an unearthly voice began to sing the song of joy, called the National Anthem of the English. The wild sounds made the night tumultuous:

“_Kitche milweletuk Kinwaish Pimetesit. O Pimache!_”

How had this native singer found me? How did he know my name?

It was a bright night, and the wind was in the south. On such a night the spirits of the dead are abroad, singing their songs of gladness. I was about to die. I was able to hear, as I came near to join them.

“God save the Queen!” wailed the voice, but now in English. Whether this Queen were a living personage or a tutelary spirit, I did not know. A scream made the air start, and then the sounds made words--“Me son Rupe! Me son!”

Now it dawned upon my failing brain that my father had come back, and because I was not yet dead, I feared to meet him. Cry after cry pierced the moonlight, with some weird laughter, and the sounds of an old man’s trouble. The tumult seemed to me so great that I turned and weakly muttered, “There must be a multitude, and they are all dead.” I tried to turn my voice upward in the call, “Father!”

The wandering voice spoke and answered clearly:

“Comin’, Rupe. Have patience wi’ me, boy. I’ve ben a-lookin’ ev’ry night. Ay, ay, ev’ry night a-lookin’, an’ a-watchin’, an’ a-callin’. Ole father’s found ye.”

I could make nothing of this. My father had only been dead a short time. There was a scuffling upon the roof, and the old spirit went on yelling the National Hymn, and danced to his own mad music. I then heard the angry scratching of his nails upon the roof of my prison.

“They hid the boy away here!” screamed the voice, shrill and cunning. “I tried to stop ’em, but they wouldn’t have it. They said, ‘Git, ole man!’ He was jest tired wi’ fightin’, was the boy. I could tell he’d wake after a while. Rupe!”

I shouted back, alive and conscious at last.

A great stone crashed down, and the lumber bounded and splintered. Piece by piece the prison bars disappeared, and the cool moonlight dropped upon me. In vain I tried to move. I could not see my rescuer, but I realised that he was happily seated at what he thought was the entrance to my grave. His voice was hoarser, when he bent down to call, “Rupe! They’re a-comin’ up all round!”

He went on:

“Bide low, while they clear away a bit. They’re screechin’ awful along the creek, an’ the blue lights are jumpin’ crazy. I knew the dead were around to-night. Bones were rattlin’ dreadful when I come out. There was crowds of stiff ’uns a-whisperin’, an’ a-laughin’, an’ a-tumblin’ around in the air, as crazy as sand-bugs. I looked for ye among ’em. An’ I come out a-calling after ye. Bide a while, boy; I’m restin’ a piece, afore pullin’ the earth off ye.”

Slowly it came to my tired brain that I was being saved by a madman who had lost a son bearing my name.

The cunning voice above went on:

“I told ’em I’d find ye, an’ ’twas no use talkin’. I said, ‘Boys all! Rupe’ll come back one midnight. Ole moon’ll be good and full a-comin’ over yon ledges, an’ ole south wind’ll blow soft, an’ the tree heads’ll start to jump. I’ll come along the Creek o’ Corpses a-callin’ Rupe, an’ I’ll find me boy. Sure, I’ll find him, an’ we’ll go home together to the ole home on the lake.’”

The voice had been pathetic, but it altered sharply and became angry.

“She’s ben a-followin’ me ev’ry night, Rupe. She seemed lost to-night, an’ she looked only a girl. She was a-comin’ this way--a-comin’ after me, Rupe, a-comin’ to keep you down in the ground. You mind the squaw, who fit worse’n a man, Rupe. You mind she wounded ye in the leg. You didn’t see it out. Listen, boy! Listen to ole father!”

His voice became a scream.

“I’ll tell ye, Rupe. There was a man who fit wi’ a bush-axe, an’ doin’ good, I tell ye, a-knockin’ ’em around fine, an’ the squaw made at him. Eh! like a beast, boy, like a wil’ beast. She’d fixed her few, but this ’un was too slick. He jumped ’way back, an’ when she come on with her big cutter he dropped his axe, an’ she dropped--ay, dropped, an’ doubled, an’ kicked once, an’ never used her knife again. I was that man, Rupe.”

His shrill laughter rang out triumphantly.

“I set down, Rupe, ’cause we was beatin’ ’em fast, an’ I was winded, being oldish. I got lookin’ around, an’ come to see a stiff’un a-lyin’ close up. He was only a boy, you might say. Wounded ter’ble he was, an’ lettin’ the blood run outer him like smoke outer a stove-pipe. You was that man, Rupe.”

He cut short his mad laughter, and I heard him move.

Two crooked hands came weirdly through the aperture, and the voice shouted at me.

For a moment I forgot the madman in the horror of the thought that Redpath might be near. My feeble heart seemed to be stopping, and a succession of dreadful screams beat into my ears and realised my dread.

“She’s found us, Rupe! The squaw’s a-comin’!”

I was so fearfully weak that I even laughed at his grotesque fear. Probably the woman he feared so greatly was some crooked shadow cast by the moon.

Then another voice came out of the night to tell me that the madman’s eyes were true--a soft voice, not of the dead, nor of the insane, but of the loving and living.

“I am hungry, and very tired. I have searched for three days, and this is the third night. I heard your voice in the bush, and so I have come.”

The world was mine again!

The old man sobbed, and panted, and screamed, and would not allow the girl to come near. I could hear him running and howling, as she tried to out-manœuvre him; but I was beyond aiding myself. I could not have stood or walked had the walls fallen away from me.

“Let me go to him!” pleaded Akshelah; but the maniac, with his superstitious fears, would not hear of it. “Then I must fight you,” said my maid.

As I had lately fought Jake Peterssen for her good fame, so now Akshelah fought the madman for my life.

How long they actually contended I do not know, because Akshelah would never tell me, but presently a light footstep ran overhead, a lithe figure dropped through the hole, and Akshelah knelt beside me. She did not speak, she had not the breath; but she freed my dead arms, and, supporting my head upon her shoulder, gave me water of life out of a little bottle. It seemed nothing but a taste, but more might have done me harm.

She took from her bosom a little meat and bread, which she had brought from Gull, and though starving herself, had never touched, and fed me sparingly. She wiped my face, and chafed my arms with her soothing little hands, and while she worked to restore me I felt something dripping upon my face from hers. The maniac’s long nails had scored deep marks upon her cheeks and forehead.

When I awoke from the long sleep into which she had soothed me it was day. I felt weak and miserably ill, but this illness was due to life returning, and not lessening; from finger-tips to shoulders my arms were two separate tortures. Close beside me Akshelah lay curled up in the sleep of exhaustion, her poor little brown face dreadfully stained and pinched, and my heart cut me. Had this girl been wise she would have remained in the shaded encampment among her own people, instead of following my fortunes, to risk dangers by land and water, privations, insults, death itself; and for what? Because she fancied I wanted her? Because she had promised to be always my friend? Because she was happier with me in danger than in comfort when I was away? Despite all my ignorance, I thought that this last might prove to be the true reason.

Directly she woke, worn and wan, the girl began to laugh, and mirthfully assured me that life was very enjoyable, even when one was next door to starvation. My maid went on laughing when I expressed a fear that Redpath might return, and she went on to tell me of the notices posted about Gull Island, offering a reward for information concerning me, and of MacCaskill, whom she had left running wild, but “no good.”

Then she swung herself from the prison, and I passed an anxious hour, which I employed in trying to use my limbs. I had quite forgotten the half-breed madman until Akshelah came back.

“He is asleep in the grass, and bitten all over with flies,” she said. “He is just where I sent him. I hit him like you hit the black man.”

Soon I heard scrapings and whinings, and the feeble voice demanding where I might be found.

“We are close to the great water,” said Akshelah. “Look at the berries I have brought you.”

We ate the rich red berries, and drank the sweet water, while the madman muttered and crawled overhead. When we had done, I declared that I could move. Akshelah divided her red shawl in the middle, and having secured the ends, tied one part about me under my arms. Climbing out, she instructed the guardian of the “grave” to lay hold and pull. Now that it was daylight, he had lost his great fear of her, and obeyed, pulling wildly, until I was brought back to liberty.

The stone building stood upon a clear circular space, some four hundred yards in diameter, the circumference being the dense lumber forest. Round my late prison a broken circle of huge monoliths occupied the turf, some erect, some leaning, others recumbent; in later years I saw in a book an illustration representing a similar circle of such stones, which this book informed me were to be found at a place called Stonehenge, somewhere in England. On the south side I could see the beginning of the dip, which the old man called the Creek of Corpses. Formerly, I presume, a fight had taken place in the neighbourhood between the natives and the Hudson Bay Company, and the dead had been buried along this creek. Redpath had discovered this spot, which formed the centre of a veritable natural labyrinth, as he had a faculty for finding out most things, and had conjectured that it would make a safe and suitable place to entomb me in return for the blow I had given him.

It became a problem how to rid myself of the ragged, hairy old creature who clung to my arm, babbling unceasingly. At length I decided to go with him, because he had a log hut near the beach, and I was too weak to walk any distance. We made our way by easy stages through the forest, until a strong sheet of light flashed before us, and I felt that I was indeed alive. I shared all the native love, and in part their superstition, for the water; and here it was--bright and beautiful Lake Peace! My exclamation found its echo from the mad hermit who claimed me for his son:

“You mind it, Rupe? Course you mind it! Round the point, jest roun’ yon tamarac bluff, there’s the ole shanty same as ever. You mind our fishin’ nights, when the moon was good, an’ how we pulled out the white-fish? Mind ole Bill Alloway, wi’ his face like a cat-fish? Mind one time, when we was fishin’, an’ Bill Alloway pulls off his shirt an’ pants, an’ swims an’ dives around? Sudden, yer line gits a holt on something big, an’ you pulls an ole cat-fish half outer the water in the moonlight. ‘Father,’ ye lets out, ‘father! Darned if I haven’t caught ole Bill Alloway!’”

The old man tumbled upon the grass, laughing, and picked the white moss.

His shanty stood on the edge of the cliff, where the tamaracs overhung the rocks, and a wonderful white beach, a hundred yards in width, and fantastically marked with the pattern of webbed feet, ran down to the lake. The hut was so dirty that we made a camp outside. I quickly caught some white-fish, thus proving my skill as a fisherman, despite my failure on the evening when I first met Akshelah. When night had fallen, the girl left me to find her way to Gull. The old man’s madness came on again with the moon, and he implored me to escape with him, so that I had little sleep; but I could not be hard upon the poor creature, because, had it not been for him, Akshelah would probably never have found me, or have only done so when Redpath would have been satisfied with my state.

In the morning, when the lake was a cold grey, and the white mist hung in ghost-wreaths, Akshelah returned, and brought MacCaskill, weary and short of breath, with her.

Between the saw-mills and the shingle beach which brought out to Gull Island was a long building of rough lumber, roofed with shingles. Over the entrance appeared a long board, bearing in large, irregular capitals the information, “Tommy’s Restaurant-Hotel.” Underneath hung a square board, upon which was inscribed the tariff of the house, which read, according to MacCaskill, exactly as follows:--

Square Meal 25c. One-Day-Filler 50c. Gorge 75c. Straight Drink 20c. Mixed Drink 25c. Bed 1dol.

No Bugs, unless you bring ’em.

We reached this rough but isolated hostelry about midnight, the four of us, because the madman followed me persistently, and we went inside to rest. MacCaskill explored the silent house, and when he returned, his face looked as though he had received a fright.

“Come wi’ me,” he whispered. “Take hold of me arm, and walk careful. Don’t let ’em see you.”

Along the passage were several compartments reserved for gambling, and we could look into any of these without well being seen, because the passage was unlighted, and the tobacco smoke inside hung in clouds. In the compartment indicated by the factor I saw a poker four deep in their game, and I was able to name each man.

The gamblers were--Jim Morrison, the sailor who had accosted me from the car my first morning in Gull; Gedeon Leblanc, the half-breed; Olaffson, the unmitigated scoundrel; and the man who had called himself Father Lacombe, the well-known missionary of Three Points.

III

ON A FRESHWATER SEA

MORNING

At last the rumbling motion overhead had ceased. The hum of the screw and the beat of the engine, with the back-wash of the water as the keel slipped through, told me that the _Carillon_ had cast off from Gull Harbour, and was away on her north-eastern trip for the Little Peace River.

I rose from my recumbent position behind the fish barrels in the hold, but I went down again, and as promptly as though a pistol had been levelled at my forehead. A couple of sailors stood together in the half-light, and I had recognised them at once as the half-breed Leblanc and the ill-favoured Morrison, who had presumably slipped away together from deck, so soon as their labours were over, that they might discuss certain plans of their own out of earshot.

“Gimme a bite of eatin’ tobaccer,” growled Morrison at the outset, and set me reflecting that the man was always asking for something. I heard the shuffling of cowhide shoes, followed by sundry unhealthy sounds of expectoration, then the same voice said, “There’s a-goin’ to be scrappin’?”

“You min’ yer talk. See, Bill? If you’d ben made wi’ no tongue you’d be better fixed right now.”

I reflected that Leblanc was master here.

“When I talk, I watch who listens. Gimme a drop o’ liquor.”

“Ain’t got none.”

The men shuffled closer to my hiding-place.

“Do we scrap, or don’t us?” demanded Jim Morrison.

“We don’t have to,” said Leblanc. “It’s skin eyes and shut mouth. When they done the findin’, than up we come. See?”

“Say, but what about this Redpath? Teaser, ain’t he?”

“Do what he tells ye, Jim,” said the half-breed, and I could tell by his voice that he was ill at ease. “Redpath don’t have no monkeyin’. If we ain’t clean to him, he’ll start to work an’ snuff us out, same as he’s done to Rupe Petrie. If he says ‘Lick me boots,’ we goter lick. See?”

“Will I talk to Olaffson?” suggested Jim Morrison. “Maybe he’d come useful.”

Leblanc grunted.

“He’ll chalk his own track. There’s only one man, ’sides Redpath, what could spile us, an’ he’s ben spilt hisself. He could have bruke the lot of us, same as he bruke Jake Peterssen.”

“Ole Mac, he ain’t no sort er good?” muttered Morrison.

“No sort, now his pard’s gone.”

“Gimme a match.”

A high-pitched voice came sounding into the hold, and I recognised the cry of Sandy, the mate.

The men separated at once, climbing out of the hold at opposite ends; while I jumped over the barrels, and stretched myself in the open, feeling strong and fit again.

MacCaskill and I had foreseen that the ship would be full of plotting, but I had now learnt that the cross-plots were likely to prove of a more serious nature than we had anticipated.

Leblanc knew something of old Fagge’s secret, and he had taken Morrison into his confidence; while assuming to be in abject submission to Redpath, they were planning how to best him. I was sorry for them.

In determining the position, I made it out to be that Leblanc and Morrison were against everyone; MacCaskill and myself against Redpath and the Icelander, with, incidentally, the two thick-skulled sailors; Redpath always for himself; Olaffson nominally for the adventurer, actually for himself. MacCaskill and myself formed the only genuine alliance, with Akshelah to aid us, and I felt we were good enough to carry the position.

After recognising Redpath under the disguise of Father Lacombe, the factor made the plan to keep me hidden. He had brought me on board the _Carillon_, and stowed me away below the night before sailing; while he had come aboard in the ordinary way with Akshelah, who, of course, could not be induced to return to Yellow Sands.

It was while waiting for the vessel to get well out to sea from Gull that I had overheard the conversation between the two sailors.

Swinging myself up out of the hold, I made along the lower deck, enjoying the prospect of the consternation my presence must cause.

Suddenly a very different voice came to me.

One more step over the greasy boards, and I caught a side glance of the entrance to the engine-room, and my heart went a little faster, because I had seen the abrupt flicker of a black skirt.

Scarcely five yards away, blocking the entry, stood my hereditary enemy, his back towards me, still preserving the disguise of the black-bearded priest.

Without a sound, I seated myself upon one of the numerous barrels, full in the open, the gloom of the ship falling behind me. I knew that Redpath must turn and see me sitting there, silent and motionless, with my eyes fixed upon him. I thought it possible that the sight might scare him pretty badly.

Thus situated, I could hear the adventurer speak, and at the same time I imagined that the engineer could not be very happy at being examined by this particular passenger.

It was impossible to hear Pete’s replies, but Redpath’s questions were sufficiently audible.

“You must often find the heat down here intolerable?” he suggested, in his kindly tones. “Ah, yes, it would reduce a fat man considerably. While the weather remains as at present you must find your duty a pleasure. What? No, I did not observe the sound. My ears are not trained like yours.”

He stepped back until he was quite outside the engine-room, and I made certain that he would turn and discover me. But after listening, he returned to his former position, and went on:

“I suppose we must expect a fresher wind, now that we are approaching the open sea. Ah, I heard it then. What effect does the moving of that lever have?”

He waited for the reply, which was inaudible to me, and continued with increased interest:

“For reducing the pressure. I see. If you desired to lower the speed so as to stop the vessel? Yes. And for starting? Ah, I quite understand. What? Shift the lever gently and gradually, as she gains way. Ah, yes, it is all very interesting, and equally instructive. To a man of my calling, a very full, general knowledge becomes indispensable. It will be obvious to you that at some future date a contingency might possibly befal, which would make it imperative upon me to understand how to control such a vessel as this. The knowledge you are now giving me in an idle moment might well lead to the saving of many precious human lives. Thank you, my son!”

How could the man do it?

A great wave flung itself against the side; and when it had beaten back, Redpath was saying:

“Quite so. I can easily believe that in the hour of danger the engineer’s position becomes especially full of peril. Now, if this fair weather continues, when may I expect to be landed at the mouth of the Little Peace?”

I suppose the engineer referred to the chance of delay, because the adventurer said presently:

“You need not remind me. I know this dangerous lake, with its mysterious storms, which, as you say, spring up suddenly under a clear sky, and vanish with the speed of their coming. I have heard so many sad tales from my own flock, so many poor Indian fishermen lost, so many lumber scows wrecked. It is very pitiful!”

The rascal coughed sanctimoniously. His back was still towards me; I wondered that he had not felt my presence so very near to him.