The Project Gutenberg EBook The Trail of The Sword, v1, by G. Parker
#33 in our series by Gilbert Parker
Copyright laws are changing all over the world. Be sure to check the
copyright laws for your country before downloading or redistributing
this or any other Project Gutenberg eBook.
This header should be the first thing seen when viewing this Project
Gutenberg file. Please do not remove it. Do not change or edit the
header without written permission.
Please read the "legal small print," and other information about the
eBook and Project Gutenberg at the bottom of this file. Included is
important information about your specific rights and restrictions in
how the file may be used. You can also find out about how to make a
donation to Project Gutenberg, and how to get involved.
**Welcome To The World of Free Plain Vanilla Electronic Texts**
**EBooks Readable By Both Humans and By Computers, Since 1971**
*****These EBooks Were Prepared By Thousands of Volunteers*****
Title: The Trail of the Sword, Volume 1.
Author: Gilbert Parker
Release Date: August, 2004 [EBook #6206]
[Yes, we are more than one year ahead of schedule]
[This file was first posted on September 23, 2002]
Edition: 10
Language: English
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TRAIL OF THE SWORD, V1, BY PARKER ***
This eBook was produced by David Widger
[NOTE: There is a short list of bookmarks, or pointers, at the end of the
file for those who may wish to sample the author's ideas before making an
entire meal of them. D.W.]
TRAIL OF THE SWORD
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
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 blufily, "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.
CHAPTER II
THE THREAT OF A RENEGADE
Iberville was used to the society of women. Even as a young lad, his
father's notable place in the colony, and the freedom and gaiety of life
in Quebec and Montreal, had drawn upon him a notice which was as much a
promise of the future as an accent of the present. And yet, through all
of it, he was ever better inspired by the grasp of a common soldier, who
had served with Carignan-Salieres, or by the greeting and gossip of such
woodsmen as Du Lhut, Mantet, La Durantaye, and, most of all, his staunch
friend Perrot, chief of the coureurs du bois. Truth is, in his veins was
the strain of war and adventure first and before all. Under his tutor,
the good Pere Dollier de Casson, he had never endured his classics, save
for the sake of Hector and Achilles and their kind; and his knowledge of
English, which his father had pressed him to learn,--for he himself had
felt the lack of it in dealings with Dutch and English traders,--only
grew in proportion as he was given Shakespeare and Raleigh to explore.
Soon the girl laughed up at him. "I have been a great traveller," she
said, "and I have ears. I have been as far west as Albany and south to
Virginia, with my father, who, perhaps you do not know, is in England
now. And they told me everywhere that Frenchmen are bold, dark men, with
great black eyes and very fine laces and wigs, and a trick of bowing and
making foolish compliments; and they are not to be trusted, and they will
not fight except in the woods, where there are trees to climb. But I see
that it is not all true, for you are not dark, your eyes are not big or
black, your laces are not much to see, you do not make compliments--"
"I shall begin now," he interrupted.
"--you must be trusted a little, or Count Frontenac would not send you,
and--and--tell me, would you fight if you had a chance?"
No one of her sex had ever talked so to Iberville. Her demure raillery,
her fresh, frank impertinence, through which there ran a pretty air of
breeding, her innocent disregard of formality, all joined to impress him,
to interest him. He was not so much surprised at the elegance and
cleverness of her speech, for in Quebec girls of her age were skilled in
languages and arts, thanks to the great bishop, Laval, and to Marie of
the Incarnation. In response to her a smile flickered upon his lips. He
had a quick fierce temper, but it had never been severely tried; and so
well used was he to looking cheerfully upon things, so keen had been his
zest in living, that, where himself was concerned, his vanity was not
easily touched. So, looking with genial dryness, "You will hardly
believe it, of course," he said, "but wings I have not yet grown, and the
walking is bad 'twixt here and the Chateau St. Louis."
"Iroquois traps," she suggested, with a smile. "With a trick or two of
English footpads," was his reply.
Meanwhile his eye had loitered between the two men in council at the
farther window and the garden, into which he and the girl were looking.
Presently he gave a little start and a low whistle, and his eyelids
slightly drooped, giving him a handsome sulkiness. "Is it so?" he said
between his teeth: "Radisson--Radisson, as I live!"
He had seen a man cross a corner of the yard. This man was short, dark-
bearded, with black, lanky hair, brass earrings, and buckskin leggings,
all the typical equipment of the French coureur du bois. Iberville had
only got one glance at his face, but the sinister profile could never be
forgotten. At once the man passed out of view. The girl had not seen
him, she had been watching her companion. Presently she said, her
fingers just brushing his sleeve, for he stood eyeing the point where the
man had disappeared: "Wonderful! You look now as if you would fight.
Oh, fierce, fierce as the governor when he catches a French spy!"
He turned to her and, with a touch of irony, "Pardon!" he retorted.
"Now I shall look as blithe as the governor when a traitor deserts to
him."
Of purpose he spoke loud enough to be heard by the governor and his
friend. The governor turned sharply on him. He had caught the ring in
the voice, that rash enthusiasm of eager youth, and, taking a step
towards Iberville, Count Frontenac's letter still poised in his hand:
"Were your words meant for my hearing, monsieur?" he said. "Were you
speaking of me or of your governor?"
"I was thinking of one Radisson a traitor, and I was speaking of
yourself, your excellency."
The governor had asked his question in French, in French the reply was
given. Both the girl and Councillor Drayton followed with difficulty.
Jessica looked a message to her comrade in ignorance. The old man
touched the governor's arm. "Let it be in English if monsieur is
willing. He speaks it well."
The governor was at work to hide his anger: he wished good greeting to
Count Frontenac's envoy, and it seemed not fitting to be touched by the
charges of a boy. "I must tell you frankly, Monsieur Iberville," he
said, "that I do not choose to find a sort of challenge in your words;
and I doubt that your father, had he been here, would have spoke quite so
roundly. But I am for peace and happy temper when I can. I may not help
it if your people, tired of the governance of Louis of France, come into
the good ruling of King Charles. As for this man Radisson: what is it
you would have?"
Iberville was now well settled back upon his native courage.
He swallowed the rebuke with grace, and replied with frankness: "Radisson
is an outlaw. Once he attempted Count Frontenac's life. He sold a band
of our traders to the Iroquois. He led your Hollanders stealthily to cut
off the Indians of the west, who were coming with their year's furs to
our merchants. There is peace between your colony and ours--is it fair
to harbour such a wretch in your court-yard? It was said up in Quebec,
your excellency, that such men have eaten at your table."
During this speech the governor seemed choleric, but a change passed
over him, and he fell to admiring the lad's boldness. "Upon my soul,
monsieur," he said, "you are council, judge, and jury all in one; but I
think I need not weigh the thing with you, for his excellency, from whom
you come, has set forth this same charge,"--he tapped the paper,--"and we
will not spoil good-fellowship by threshing it now." He laughed a little
ironically. "And I promise you," he added, "that your Radisson shall
neither drink wine nor eat bread with you at my table. And now, come,
let us talk awhile together; for, lest any accident befall the packet you
shall bear, I wish you to carry in your memory, with great distinctness,
the terms of my writing to your governor. I would that it were not to be
written, for I hate the quill, and I've seen the time I would rather
point my sword red than my quill black."
By this the shadows were falling. In the west the sun was slipping down
behind the hills, leaving the strong day with a rosy and radiant glamour,
that faded away in eloquent tones to the grey, tinsel softness of the
zenith. Out in the yard a sumach bush was aflame. Rich tiger-lilies
thrust in at the sill, and lazy flies and king bees boomed in and out of
the window. Something out of the sunset, out of the glorious freshness
and primal majesty of the new land, diffused through the room where those
four people stood, and made them silent. Presently the governor drew his
chair to the table, and motioned Councillor Drayton and Iberville to be
seated.
The girl touched his arm. "And where am I to sit?" she asked demurely.
Colonel Nicholls pursed his lips and seemed to frown severely on her.
"To sit? Why, in your room, mistress. Tut, tut, you are too bold.
If I did not know your father was coming soon to bear you off, new orders
should be issued. Yes, yes, e'en as I say," he added, as he saw the
laughter in her eyes.
She knew that she could wind the big-mannered soldier about her finger.
She had mastered his household; she was the idol of the settlement,
her flexible intelligence, the flush of the first delicate bounty of
womanhood had made him her slave. In a matter of vexing weight he would
not have let her stay, but such deliberatings as he would have with
Iberville could well bear her scrutiny. He reached out to pinch her
cheek, but she deftly tipped her head and caught his outstretched
fingers. "But where am I to sit?" she persisted. "Anywhere, then, but
at the council-table," was his response, as he wagged a finger at her and
sat down. Going over she perched herself on a high stool in the window
behind Iberville. He could not see her, and, if he thought at all about
it, he must have supposed that she could not see him. Yet she could; for
against the window-frame was a mirror, and it reflected his face and the
doings at the board. She did not listen to the rumble of voices. She
fell to studying Iberville. Once or twice she laughed softly to herself.
As she turned to the window a man passed by and looked in at her. His
look was singular, and she started. Something about his face was
familiar. She found her mind feeling among far memories, for even the
past of the young stretches out interminably. She shuddered, and a
troubled look came into her eyes. Yet she could not remember. She
leaned slightly forward, as if she were peering into that by-gone world
which, maybe, is wider than the future for all of us--the past. Her eyes
grew deep and melancholy. The sunset seemed to brighten around her all
at once, and enmesh her in a golden web, burnishing her hair, and it fell
across her brow with a peculiar radiance, leaving the temples in shadow,
softening and yet lighting the carmine of her cheeks and lips, giving a
feeling of life to her dress, which itself was like dusty gold. Her
hands were caught and clasped at her knees. There was something
spiritual and exalted in the picture. It had, too, a touch of tragedy,
for something out of her nebulous past had been reflected in faint
shadows in her eyes, and this again, by strange, delicate processes, was
expressed in every line of her form, in all the aspect of her face. It
was as if some knowledge were being filtered to her through myriad
atmospheres of premonition; as though the gods in pity foreshadowed a
great trouble, that the first rudeness of misery might be spared.
She did not note that Iberville had risen, and had come round the table
to look over Councillor Drayton's shoulder at a map spread out. After
standing a moment watching, the councillor's finger his pilot, he started
back to his seat. As he did so he caught sight of her still in that
poise of wonderment and sadness. He stopped short, then glanced at
Colonel Nicholls and the councillor. Both were bent over the map,
talking in eager tones. He came softly round the table, and was about
to speak over her shoulder, when she drew herself up with a little shiver
and seemed to come back from afar. Her hands went up to her eyes. Then
she heard him. She turned quickly, with the pageant of her dreams still
wavering in her face; smiled at him distantly, looked towards the window
again in a troubled way, then stepped softly and swiftly to the door, and
passed out. Iberville watched the door close and turned to the window.
Again he saw, and this time nearer to the window, Radisson, and with him
the man who had so suddenly mastered Jessica.
He turned to Colonel Nicholls. "Your excellency," he said, "will you not
let me tell Count Frontenac that you forbid Radisson your purlieus? For,
believe me, sir, there is no greater rogue unhanged, as you shall find
some day to the hurt of your colony, if you shelter him."
The governor rose and paced the room thoughtfully. "He is proclaimed by
Frontenac?" he asked.
"A price is on his head. As a Frenchman I should shoot him like a wolf
where'er I saw him; and so I would now were I not Count Frontenac's
ambassador and in your excellency's presence."
"You speak manfully, monsieur," said the governor, not ill-pleased; "but
how might you shoot him now? Is he without there?" At this he came to
where Iberville stood, and looked out. "Who is the fellow with him?"
he asked.
"A cut-throat scoundrel, I'll swear, though his face is so smug," said
Iberville. "What think you sir?" turning to the councillor, who was
peering between their shoulders.
"As artless yet as strange a face as I have ever seen," answered the
merchant. "What's his business here, and why comes he with the other
rogue? He would speak with your excellency, I doubt not," he added.
Colonel Nicholls turned to Iberville. "You shall have your way," he
said. "Yon renegade was useful when we did not know what sudden game was
playing from Chateau St. Louis; for, as you can guess, he has friends as
faithless as himself. But to please your governor, I will proclaim him."
He took his stick and tapped the floor. Waiting a moment, he tapped
again. There was no sign. He opened the door; but his Scots body-guard
was not in sight. "That's unusual," he said. Then, looking round:
"Where is our other councillor? Gone?" he laughed. "Faith, I did not
see her go. And now we can swear that where the dear witch is will
Morris, my Scotsman, be found. Well, well! They have their way with us
whether we will or no. But, here, I'll have your Radisson in at once."
He was in act to call when Morris entered. With a little hasty rebuke
he gave his order to the man. "And look you, my good Morris," he added,
"tell Sherlock and Weir to stand ready. I may need the show of
firearms."
Turning to Iberville, he said: "I trust you will rest with us some days,
monsieur. We shall have sports and junketings anon. We are not yet so
grim as our friends in Massachusetts."
"I think I might venture two days with you, sir, if for nothing else,
to see Radisson proclaimed. Count Frontenac would gladly cut months from
his calendar to know you ceased to harbour one who can prove no friend,"
was the reply.
The governor smiled. "You have a rare taste for challenge, monsieur.
To be frank, I will say your gift is more that of the soldier than the
envoy. But upon my soul, if you will permit me, I think no less of you
for that."
Then the door opened, and Morris brought in Radisson. The keen, sinister
eyes of the woodsman travelled from face to face, and then rested
savagely on Iberville. He scented trouble, and traced it to its source.
Iberville drew back to the window and, resting his arm on the high stool
where Jessica had sat, waited the event. Presently the governor came
over to him.
"You can understand," he said quietly, "that this man has been used by my
people, and that things may be said which--"
Iberville waved his hand respectfully. "I understand, your excellency,"
he said. "I will go." He went to the door.
The woodsman as he passed broke out: "There is the old saying of the
woods, 'It is mad for the young wolf to trail the old bear.'"
"That is so," rejoined Iberville, with excellent coolness, "if the wolf
holds not the spring of the trap."
In the outer room were two soldiers and the Scot. He nodded, passed into
the yard, and there he paced up and down. Once he saw Jessica's face at
a window, he was astonished to see how changed. It wore a grave, an
apprehensive look. He fell to wondering, but, even as he wondered, his
habit of observation made him take in every feature of the governor's
house and garden, so that he could have reproduced all as it was mirrored
in his eye. Presently he found himself again associating Radisson's
comrade with the vague terror in Jessica's face. At last he saw the
fellow come forth between two soldiers, and the woodsman turned his head
from side to side, showing his teeth like a wild beast at sight of
Iberville. His black brows twitched over his vicious eyes. "There are
many ways to hell, Monsieur Iberville," he said. "I will show you one.
Some day when you think you tread on a wisp of straw, it will be a snake
with the deadly tooth. You have made an outlaw--take care! When the
outlaw tires of the game, he winds it up quick. And some one pays for
the candles and the cards."
Iberville walked up to him. "Radisson," he said in a voice well
controlled, "you have always been an outlaw. In our native country you
were a traitor; in this, you are the traitor still. I am not sorry for
you, for you deserve not mercy. Prove me wrong. Go back to Quebec;
offer to pay with your neck, then--"
"I will have my hour," said the woodsman, and started on.
"It's a pity," said Iberville to himself--"as fine a woodsman as Perrot,
too!"
CHAPTER III
THE FACE AT THE WINDOW
At the governor's table that night certain ladies and gentlemen assembled
to do the envoy honour. There came, too, a young gentleman, son of a
distinguished New Englander, his name George Gering, who was now in New
York for the first time. The truth is, his visit was to Jessica, his old
playmate, the mistress of his boyhood. Her father was in England, her
mother had been dead many years, and Colonel Nicholls and his sister
being kinsfolk, a whole twelvemonth ago she had been left with them. Her
father had thought at first to house her with his old friend Edward
Gering, but he loved the Cavalier-like tone of Colonel Nicholls's
household better than the less inspiriting air which Madam Puritan Gering
suffused about her home. Himself in early youth had felt the austerity
of a Cavalier father turned a Puritan on a sudden, and he wished no such
experience for his daughter. For all her abundancy of life and feeling,
he knew how plastic and impressionable she was, and he dreaded to see
that exaltation of her fresh spirit touched with gloom. She was his only
child, she had been little out of his sight, her education had gone on
under his own care, and, in so far as was possible in a new land, he had
surrounded her with gracious influences. He looked forward to any
definite separation (as marriage) with apprehension. Perhaps one of the
reasons why he chose Colonel Nicholls's house for her home, was a fear
lest George Gering should so impress her that she might somehow change
ere his return. And in those times brides of sixteen were common as now
they are rare.
She sat on the governor's left. All the brightness, the soft piquancy,
which Iberville knew, had returned; and he wondered--fortunate to know
that wonder so young--at her varying moods. She talked little, and most
with the governor; but her presence seemed pervasive, the aura in her
veins flowed from her eye and made an atmosphere that lighted even the
scarred and rather sulky faces of two officers of His Majesty near. They
had served with Nicholls in Spain, but not having eaten King Louis's
bread, eyed all Frenchmen askance, and were not needlessly courteous to
Iberville, whose achievements they could scarce appreciate, having done
no Indian fighting.
Iberville sat at the governor's end, Gering at the other. It was noticed
by Iberville that Gering's eyes were much on Jessica, and in the spirit
of rivalry, the legitimate growth of race and habit, he began to speak to
her with the air of easy but deliberate playfulness which marked their
first meeting.
Presently she spoke across the table to him, after Colonel Nicholls had
pledged him heartily over wine. The tone was a half whisper as of awe,
in reality a pretty mockery. "Tell me," she said, "what is the bravest
and greatest thing you ever did?"
"Jessica, Jessica!" said the governor in reproof. An old Dutch burgher
laughed into his hand, and His Majesty's officers cocked their ears, for
the whisper was more arresting than any loud talk. Iberville coloured,
but the flush passed quickly and left him unembarrassed. He was not
hurt, not even piqued, for he felt well used to her dainty raillery. But
he saw that Gering's eyes were on him, and the lull that fell as by a
common instinct--for all could not have heard the question--gave him a
thrill of timidity. But, smiling, he said drily across the table, his
voice quiet and clear: "My bravest and greatest thing was to answer an
English lady's wit in English."
A murmur of applause ran round, and Jessica laughed and clapped her
hands. For the first time in his life Gering had a pang of jealousy and
envy. Only that afternoon he had spent a happy hour with Jessica in the
governor's garden, and he had then made an advance upon the simple
relations of their life in Boston. She had met him without self-
consciousness, persisting in her old ways, and showing only when she left
him, and then for a breath, that she saw his new attitude. Now the eyes
of the two men met, and Gering's dark face flushed and his brow lowered.
Perhaps no one saw but Iberville, but he, seeing, felt a sudden desire to
play upon the other's weakness. He was too good a sportsman to show
temper in a game; he had suddenly come to the knowledge that love, too,
is a game, and needs playing. By this time the dinner was drawing to its
close and now a singular thing happened. As Jessica, with demure
amusement, listened to the talk that followed Iberville's sally, she
chanced to lift her eyes to a window. She started, changed colour, and
gave a little cry. The governor's hand covered hers at once as he
followed her look. It was a summer's night and the curtained windows
were partly open. Iberville noted that Jessica's face wore the self-same
shadow as in the afternoon when she had seen the stranger with Radisson.
"What was it, my dear?" said the governor.
She did not answer, but pressed his hand nervously. "A spy, I believe,"
said Iberville, in a low voice. "Yes, yes," said Jessica in a half
whisper; "a man looked in at the window; a face that I have seen--but
I can't remember when."
The governor went to the window and drew the curtains. There was nothing
to see. He ordered Morris, who stood behind his chair, to have the
ground searched and to bring in any straggler. Already both the officers
were on their way to the door, and at this point it opened and let in a
soldier. He said that as he and his comrade were returning from their
duty with Radisson they saw a man lurking in the grounds and seized him.
He had made no resistance, and was now under guard in the ante-room. The
governor apologised to his guests, but the dinner could not be ended
formally now, so the ladies rose and retired. Jessica, making a mighty
effort to recover herself, succeeded so well that ere she went she was
able to reproach herself for her alarm; the more so because the
governor's sister showed her such consideration as would be given a
frightened child--and she had begun to feel something more.
The ladies gone, the governor drew his guests about him and ordered in
the prisoner. Morris spoke up, saying that the man had begged an
interview with the governor that afternoon, but, being told that his
excellency was engaged, had said another hour would do. This man was the
prisoner. He came in under guard, but he bore himself quietly enough and
made a low bow to the governor. He was not an ill-favoured fellow. His
eye was steely cold, but his face was hearty and round, and remarkably
free from viciousness. He had a cheerful air and an alert freedom of
manner, which suggested good-fellowship and honest enterprise.
Where his left hand had been was an iron hook, but not obtrusively in
view, nor did it give any marked grimness to his appearance. Indeed, the
effect was almost comical when he lifted it and scratched his head and
then rubbed his chin with it; it made him look part bumpkin and part
sailor. He bore the scrutiny of the company very well, and presently
bowed again to the governor as one who waited the expression of that
officer's goodwill and pleasure.
"Now, fellow," said the colonel, "think yourself lucky my soldiers here
did not shoot you without shrift. You chance upon good-natured times.
When a spying stranger comes dangling about these windows, my men are
given to adorning the nearest tree with him. Out with the truth now.
Who and what are you, and why are you here?"
The fellow bowed. "I am the captain of a little trading schooner, the
Nell Gwynn, which anchors in the roadstead till I have laid some private
business before your excellency and can get on to the Spanish Indies."
"Business--private business! Then what in the name of all that's
infernal," quoth Nicholls, "brought your sneaking face to yon window to
fright my lady-guests?" The memory of Jessica's alarm came hotly to his
mind. "By Heaven," he said, "I have a will to see you lifted, for means
to better manners."
The man stood very quiet, now and again, however, raising the hook to
stroke his chin. He showed no fear, but Iberville, with his habit of
observation, caught in his eyes, shining superficially with a sailor's
open honesty, a strange ulterior look. "My business," so he answered
Nicholls, "is for your excellency's ears." He bowed again.
"Have done with scraping. Now, I tell you what, my gentle spy, if your
business hath not concern, I'll stretch you by your fingers there to our
public gallows, and my fellows shall fill you with small shot as full as
a pod of peas."
The governor rose and went into another room, followed by this strange
visitor and the two soldiers. There he told the guard to wait at the
door, which entered into the ante-room. Then he unlocked a drawer and
took out of it a pair of pistols. These he laid on the table (for he
knew the times), noting the while that the seaman watched him with a
pensive, deprecating grin.
"Well, sir," he said sharply (for he was something nettled), "out with
your business, and your name in preface."
"My name is Edward Bucklaw, and I have come to your excellency because
I know there is no braver and more enterprising gentleman in the world."
He paused. "So much for preamble; now for the discourse."
"By your excellency's leave. I am a poor man. I have only my little
craft and a handful of seamen picked up at odd prices. But there's gold
and silver enough I know of, owned by no man, to make cargo and ballast
for the Nell Gwynn, or another twice her size."
"Gold and silver," said the governor, cocking his ear and eyeing his
visitor up and down. Colonel Nicholls had an acquisitive instinct; he
was interested. "Well, well, gold and silver," he continued, "to fill
the Nell Gwynn and another! And what concern is that of mine? Let your
words come plain off your tongue; I have no time for foolery."
"'Tis no foolery on my tongue, sir, as you may please to see."
He drew a paper from his pocket and shook it out as he came a little
nearer, speaking all the while. His voice had gone low, running to a
soft kind of chuckle, and his eyes were snapping with fire, which
Iberville alone had seen was false. "I have come to make your
excellency's fortune, if you will stand by with a good, stout ship
and a handful of men to see me through."
The governor shrugged his shoulders. "Babble," he said, "all babble and
bubble. But go on."
"Babble, your honour! Every word of it is worth a pint of guineas; and
this is the pith of it. Far down West Indies way, some twenty-five,
maybe, or thirty years ago, there was a plate ship wrecked upon a reef.
I got it from a Spaniard, who had been sworn upon oath to keep it secret
by priests who knew. The priests were killed and after a time the
Spaniard died also, but not until he had given me the ways whereby I
should get at what makes a man's heart rap in his weasand."
"Let me see your chart," said the governor.
A half-hour later he rose, went to the door, and sent a soldier for the
two king's officers. As he did so, Bucklaw eyed the room doors, windows,
fireplaces, with a grim, stealthy smile trailing across his face. Then
suddenly the good creature was his old good self again--the comfortable
shrewdness, the buoyant devil-may-care, the hook stroking the chin
pensively. And the king's officers came in, and soon all four were busy
with the map.
CHAPTER IV
THE UPLIFTING OF THE SWORDS
Iberville and Gering sat on with the tobacco and the wine. The older men
had joined the ladies, the governor having politely asked them to do so
when they chose. The other occupant of the room was Morris, who still
stood stolidly behind his master's chair.
For a time he heard the talk of the two young men as in a kind of dream.
Their words were not loud, their manner was amicable enough, if the
sharing of a bottle were anything to the point. But they were sitting
almost the full length of the table from him, and to quarrel courteously
and with an air hath ever been a quality in men of gentle blood.
If Morris's eyesight had been better, he would have seen that Gering
handled his wine nervously, and had put down his long Dutch pipe. He
would also have seen that Iberville was smoking with deliberation, and
drinking with a kind of mannered coolness. Gering's face was flushed,
his fine nostrils were swelling viciously, his teeth showed white against
his red lips, and his eyes glinted. There was a kind of devilry at
Iberville's large and sensuous mouth, but his eyes were steady and
provoking, and while Gering's words went forth pantingly, Iberville's
were slow and concise, and chosen with the certainty of a lapidary.
It is hard to tell which had started the quarrel, but an edge was on
their talk from the beginning. Gering had been moved by a boyish
jealousy; Iberville, who saw the injustice of his foolish temper, had
played his new-found enemy with a malicious adroitness. The aboriginal
passions were strong in him. He had come of a people which had to do
with essentials in the matter of emotions. To love, to hate, to fight,
to explore, to hunt, to be loyal, to avenge, to bow to Mother Church,
to honour the king, to beget children, to taste outlawry under a more
refined name, and to die without whining: that was its range of duty,
and a very sufficient range it was.
The talk had been running on Bucklaw. It had then shifted to Radisson.
Gering had crowded home with flagrant emphasis the fact that, while
Radisson was a traitor and a scoundrel,--which Iberville himself had
admitted with an ironical frankness,--he was also a Frenchman. It was
at this point that Iberville remembered, also with something of irony,
the words that Jessica had used that afternoon when she came out of the
sunshine into the ante-room of the governor's chamber. She had waved her
hand into the distance and had said: "Foolish boy!" He knew very well
that that part of the game was turned against him, but with a kind of
cheerful recklessness, as was ever his way with odds against him, and he
guessed that the odds were with Gering in the matter of Jessica,--he bent
across the table and repeated them with an exasperating turn to his
imperfect accent. "Foolish boy!" he said, and awaited, not for long,
the event.
"A fool's lie," retorted Gering, in a low, angry voice, and spilled his
wine.
At that Iberville's heart thumped in his throat with anger, and the roof
of his mouth became dry; never in his life had he been called a liar.
The first time that insult strikes a youth of spirit he goes a little
mad.
But he was very quiet--an ominous sort of quietness, even in a boy. He
got to his feet and leaned over the table, speaking in words that dropped
on the silence like metal: "Monsieur, there is but one answer."
At this point Morris, roused from his elaborate musings, caught, not very
clearly, at the meaning of it all. But he had not time to see more, for
just then he was called by the governor, and passed into the room where
Mammon, for the moment, perched like a leering, little dwarf upon the
shoulders of adventurous gentlemen grown avaricious on a sudden.
"Monsieur, there is but one way. Well?" repeated Iberville.
"I am ready," replied Gering, also getting to his feet. The Frenchman
was at once alive to certain difficulties. He knew that an envoy should
not fight, and that he could ask no one to stand his second; also that it
would not be possible to arrange a formal duel between opposites so young
as Gering and himself. He sketched this briefly, and the Bostonian
nodded moody assent. "Come, then," said Iberville, "let us find a place.
My sword is at my hand. Yours?"
"Mine is not far off," answered Gering sullenly. Iberville forbore to
point a moral, but walked to the mantel, above which hung two swords of
finest steel, with richly-chased handles. He had noted them as soon as
he had entered the room. "By the governor's leave," he said, and took
them down. "Since we are to ruffle him let him furnish the spurs--eh?
Shall we use these, and so be even as to weapons? But see," he added,
with a burst of frankness, "I am in a--a trouble." It was not easy on
the instant to find the English word. He explained the duties of his
mission. It was singular to ask his enemy that he should see his papers
handed to Count Frontenac if he were killed, but it was characteristic of
him.
"I will see the papers delivered," said Gering, with equal frankness.
"That is, if by some miraculous chance I should be killed," added
Iberville. "But I have other ends in view."
"I have only one end in view," retorted Gering. "But wait," he said, as
they neared the door leading into the main hall; "we may be seen. There
is another way into the grounds through a little hall here." He turned
and opened a door almost as small as a panel. "I was shown this secret
door the other day, and since ours is a secret mission let us use it."
"Very well. But a minute more," said Iberville. He went and unhooked a
fine brass lantern, of old Dutch workmanship, swung from the ceiling by a
chain. "We shall need a light," he remarked.
They passed into the musty little hallway, and Gering with some
difficulty drew back the bolts. The door creaked open and they stepped
out into the garden,
Iberville leading the way. He had not conned his surroundings that
afternoon for nothing, and when they had reached a quiet place among
some firs he hung the lantern to the branch of a tree, opening the little
ornamental door so that the light streamed out. There was not much of
it, but it would serve, and without a word, like two old warriors, they
took off their coats.
Meanwhile Morris had returned to the dining-room to find Jessica standing
agaze there. She had just come in; for, chancing to be in her bed-
chamber, which was just over the secret hallway, she had heard Gering
shoot the bolts. Now, the chamber was in a corner, so that the window
faced another way, but the incident seemed strange to her, and she stood
for a moment listening. Then hearing the door shut, she ran down the
stairs, knocked at the dining-room door and, getting no answer, entered,
meeting Morris as he came from the governor's room.
"Morris, Morris," she said, "where are they all?"
"The governor is in his room, mistress."
"Who are with him?" He told her.
"Where are the others?" she urged. "Mr. Gering and Monsieur Iberville
--where are they?"
The man's eyes had flashed to the place where the swords were used to
hang. "Lord God!" he said under his breath.
Her eyes had followed his. She ran forward to the wall and threw up her
hands against it. "Oh Morris," she said distractedly, "they have taken
the swords!" Then she went past him swiftly through the panel and the
outer door. She glanced around quickly, running, as she did so, with a
kind of blind instinct towards the clump of firs. Presently she saw a
little stream of light in the trees. Always a creature of abundant
energy and sprightliness, she swept through the night, from the comedy
behind to the tragedy in front; the grey starlight falling about her
white dress and making her hair seem like a cloud behind her as she ran.
Suddenly she came in on the two sworders with a scared, transfigured
face.
Iberville had his man at an advantage, and was making the most of it when
she came in at an angle behind the other, and the sight of her stayed his
arm. It was but for a breath, but it served. Gering had not seen, and
his sword ran up Iberville's arm, making a little trench in the flesh.
She ran in on them from the gloom, saying in a sharp, aching voice:
"Stop, stop! Oh, what madness!" The points dropped and they stepped
back. She stood between them, looking from one to the other. At that
moment Morris burst in also. "In God's name," he said, "is this your
honouring of the king's governor! Ye that have eat and drunk at his
table the night! Have ye nae sense o' your manhood, young gentlemen,
that for a mad gossip ower the wine ye wend into the dark to cut each
other's throats? Think--think shame, baith o' ye, being as ye are of
them that should know better."
Gering moodily put on his coat and held his peace. Iberville tossed his
sword aside, and presently wrung the blood from his white sleeve. The
girl saw him, and knew that he was wounded. She snatched a scarf from
her waist and ran towards him. "You are wounded," she said. "Oh, take
this!"
"I am so much sorry, indeed," he answered coolly, winding the scarf about
his arm. "Mistress Leveret came too soon."
His face wore a peculiar smile, but his eyes burned with anger; his voice
was not excited. Immediately, however, as he looked at Jessica, his mood
seemed to change.
"Morris," he said, "I am sorry. Mademoiselle," he added, "pardon! I
regret whatever gives you pain." Gering came near to her, and Iberville
could see that a flush stole over Jessica's face as he took her hand and
said: "I am sorry--that you should have known."
"Good!" said Iberville, under his breath. "Good! he is worth fighting
again."
A moment afterwards Morris explained to them that if the matter could be
hushed he would not impart it to the governor--at least, not until
Iberville had gone. Then they all started back towards the house. It
did not seem incongruous to Iberville and Gering to walk side by side;
theirs was a superior kind of hate. They paused outside the door, on
Morris's hint, that he might see if the coast was clear, and return the
swords to their place on the wall.
Jessica turned in the doorway. "I shall never forgive you," she said,
and was swallowed by the darkness. "Which does she mean?" asked
Iberville, with a touch of irony. The other was silent.
In a moment Morris came back to tell them that they might come, for the
dining-room was empty still.
CHAPTER V
THE FRUITS OF THE LAW
Bucklaw having convinced the governor and his friends that down in the
Spaniards' country there was treasure for the finding, was told that he
might come again next morning. He asked if it might not be late
afternoon instead, because he had cargo from the Indies for sale, and in
the morning certain merchants were to visit his vessel. Truth to tell he
was playing a deep game. He wanted to learn the governor's plans for the
next afternoon and evening, and thought to do so by proposing this same
change. He did not reckon foolishly. The governor gave him to
understand that there would be feasting next day: first, because it
was the birthday of the Duke of York; secondly, because it was the
anniversary of the capture from the Dutch; and, last of all, because
there were Indian chiefs to come from Albany to see New York and himself
for the first time. The official celebration would begin in the
afternoon and last till sundown, so that all the governor's time must be
fully occupied. But Bucklaw said, with great candour, that unfortunately
he had to sail for Boston within thirty-six hours, to keep engagements
with divers assignees for whom he had special cargo. If his excellency,
he said, would come out to his ship the next evening when the shows were
done, he would be proud to have him see his racketing little craft; and
it could then be judged if, with furbishing and armaments, she could by
any means be used for the expedition. Nicholls consented, and asked the
king's officers if they would accompany him. This they were exceedingly
glad to do: so that the honest shipman's good nature and politeness were
vastly increased, and he waved his hook in so funny and so boyish a way
it set them all a-laughing.
So it was arranged forthwith that he should be at a quiet point on the
shore at a certain hour to row the governor and his friends to the Nell
Gwynn. And, this done, he was bade to go to the dining-room and refresh
himself.
He obeyed with cheerfulness, and was taken in charge by Morris, who,
having passed on Iberville and Gering to the drawing-room, was once more
at his post, taciturn as ever. The governor and his friends had gone
straight to the drawing-room, so that Morris and he were alone. Wine was
set before the sailor and he took off a glass with gusto, his eye cocked
humorously towards his host. "No worse fate for a sinner," quoth he;
"none better for a saint."
Morris's temper was not amiable. He did not like the rascal. "Ay," said
he, "but many's the sinner has wished yon wish, and footed it from the
stocks to the gallows."
Bucklaw laughed up at him. It was not a pretty laugh, and his eyes were
insolent and hard. But that, changed almost on the instant. "A good
thrust, mighty Scot," he said. "Now what say you to a pasty, or a strip
of beef cut where the juice runs, and maybe the half of a broiled fowl?"
Morris, imperturbably deliberate, left the room to seek the kitchen.
Bucklaw got instantly to his feet. His eye took in every window and
door, and ran along the ceiling and the wall. There was a sudden click
in the wall before him. It was the door leading to the unused hallway,
which had not been properly closed and had sprung open. He caught up a
candle, ran over, entered the hallway, and gave a grunt of satisfaction.
He hastily and softly drew the bolts of the outer door, so that any one
might come in from the garden, then stepped back into the dining-room and
closed the panel tight behind him, remarking with delight that it had no
spring-lock, and could be opened from the hallway. He came back quickly
to the table, put down the candle, took his seat, stroked his chin with
his hook, and chuckled. When Morris came back, he was holding his wine
with one hand while he hummed a snatch of song and drummed lightly on the
table with the hook. Immediately after came a servant with a tray, and
the Scotsman was soon astonished, not only at the buxomness of his
appetite, but at the deftness with which he carved and handled things
with what he called his "tiger." And so he went on talking and eating,
and he sat so long that Jessica, as she passed into the corridor and up
the stairs, wearied by the day, heard his voice uplifted in song. It so
worked upon her that she put her hands to her ears, hurried to her room,
and threw herself upon the bed in a distress she could set down to no
real cause.
Before the governor and his guests parted for the night, Iberville, as he
made his adieus to Gering, said in a low voice: "The same place and time
to-morrow night, and on the same conditions?"
"I shall be happy," said Gering, and they bowed with great formality.
The governor had chanced to hear a word or two and, thinking it was some
game of which they spoke, said: "Piquet or a game of wits, gentlemen?"
"Neither, your excellency," quoth Gering--"a game called fox and goose."
"Good," said Iberville, under his breath; "my Puritan is waking."
The governor was in ripe humour. "But it is a game of wits, then, after
all. Upon my soul, you two should fence like a pair of veterans."
"Only for a pass or two," said Iberville dryly. "We cannot keep it up."
All this while a boat was rowing swiftly from the shore of the island
towards a craft carrying Nell Gwynn beneath the curious, antique
figurehead. There were two men in her, and they were talking gloatingly
and low.
"See, bully, how I have the whole thing in my hands. Ha! Received by
the governor and his friends! They are all mad for the doubloons, which
are not for them, my Radisson, but for you and me, and for a greater than
Colonel Richard Nicholls. Ho, ho! I know him--the man who shall lead
the hunt and find the gold--the only man in all that cursed Boston whose
heart I would not eat raw, so help me Judas! And his name--no. That is
to come. I will make him great."
Again he chuckled. "Over in London they shall take him to their bosoms.
Over in London his blessed majesty shall dub him knight--treasure-trove
is a fine reason for the touch of a royal sword--and the king shall say:
'Rise, Sir William'--No, it is not time for the name; but it is not
Richard Nicholls, it is not Hogarth Leveret." He laughed like a boy.
"I have you, Hogarth Leveret, in my hand, and by God I will squeeze you
until there is a drop of heart's blood at every pore of your skin!"
Now and again Radisson looked sideways at him, a sardonic smile at his
lip. At last: "Bien," he said, "you are merry. So--I shall be merry
too, for I have scores to wipe away, and they shall be wiped clean--
clean."
"You are with me, then," the pirate asked; "even as to the girl?"
"Even as to the girl," was the reply, with a brutal oath.
"That is good, dear lad. Blood of my soul, I have waited twelve years--
twelve years."
"You have not told me," rejoined the Frenchman; "speak now."
"There is not much to tell, but we are to be partners once and for all.
See, my beauty. He was a kite-livered captain. There was gold on board.
We mutinied and put him and four others--their livers were like his own--
in a boat with provisions plenty. Then we sailed for Boston. We never
thought the crew of skulkers would reach land, but by God they drifted in
again the very hour we found port. We were taken and condemned. First,
I was put into the stocks, hands and feet, till I was fit for the
pillory; from the pillory to the wooden horse." Here he laughed, and the
laugh was soft and womanlike. "Then the whipping-post, when I was made
pulp from my neck to my loins. After that I was to hang. I was the only
one they cooked so; the rest were to hang raw. I did not hang; I broke
prison and ran. For years I was a slave among the Spaniards. Years
more--in all, twelve--and then I came back with the little chart for one
thing, this to do for another. Who was it gave me that rogues' march
from the stocks to the gallows's foot? It was Hogarth Leveret, who deals
out law in Massachusetts in the king's name, by the grace of God. It was
my whim to capture him and take him on a journey--such a journey as he
would go but once. Blood of my soul, the dear lad was gone. But there
was his child. See this: when I stood in the pillory a maid one day
brought the child to the foot of the platform, lifted it up in her arms
and said: 'Your father put that villain there.' That woman was sister to
one of the dogs we'd set adrift. The child stared at me hard, and I
looked at her, though my eyes were a little the worse for wear, so that
she cried out in great fright--the sweet innocent! and then the wench
took her away. When she saw my face to-night--to-day--it sent her wild,
but she did not remember." He rubbed his chin in ecstasy and drummed his
knee. "Ha! I cannot have the father--so I'll have the goodly child, and
great will be the ransom. Great will be the ransom, my Frenchman!" And
once more he tapped Radisson with the tiger.
CHAPTER VI
THE KIDNAPPING
The rejoicing had reached its apogee, and was on the wane. The Puritan
had stretched his austereness to the point of levity; the Dutchman had
comfortably sweated his obedience and content; the Cavalier had paced it
with a pretty air of patronage and an eye for matron and maid; the
Indian, come from his far hunting-grounds, bivouacked in the governor's
presence as the pipe of peace went round.
About twilight the governor and his party had gone home. Deep in
ceremonial as he had been, his mind had run upon Bucklaw and the
Spaniards' country. So, when the dusk was growing into night, the hour
came for his visit to the Nell Gwynn. With his two soldier friends and
Councillor Drayton, he started by a roundabout for the point where he
looked to find Bucklaw. Bucklaw was not there: he had other fish to fry,
and the ship's lights were gone. She had changed her anchorage since
afternoon.
"It's a bold scheme," Bucklaw was saying to his fellow-ruffian in the
governor's garden, "and it may fail, yet 'twill go hard, but we'll save
our skins. No pluck, no pence. Once again, here's the trick of it.
I'll go in by the side door I unlocked last night, hide in the hallway,
then enter the house quietly or boldly, as the case may be. Plan one: a
message from his excellency to Miss Leveret, that he wishes her to join
him on the Nell Gwynn. Once outside it's all right. She cannot escape
us. We have our cloaks and we have the Spanish drug. Plan two: make her
ours in the house. Out by this hall door-through the grounds--to the
beach--the boat in waiting--and so, up anchor and away! Both risky, as
you see, but the bolder the game the sweeter the spoil. You're sure her
chamber is above the hallway, and that there's a staircase to it from the
main hall?"
"I am very well sure. I know the house up-stairs and down."
Bucklaw looked to his arms. He was about starting on his quest when they
heard footsteps, and two figures appeared. It was Iberville and Gering.
They paused a moment not far from where the rogues were hid.
"I think you will agree," said Iberville, "that we must fight."
"I have no other mind."
"You will also be glad if we are not come upon, as last night; though,
confess, the lady gave you a lease of life?"
"If she comes to-night, I hope it will be when I have done with you,"
answered Gering.
Iberville laughed a little, and the laugh had fire in it--hatred, and the
joy of battle. "Shall it be here or yonder in the pines, where we were
in train last night?"
"Yonder."
"So." Then Iberville hummed ironically a song:
"Oh, bury me where I have fought and fallen,
Your scarf across my shoulder, lady mine."
They passed on. "The game is in our hands," said Bucklaw. "I understand
this thing. That's a pair of gallant young sprigs, but the choice is
your Frenchman, Radisson."
"I'll pink his breast-bone full of holes if the other doesn't--
curse him."
A sweet laugh trickled from Bucklaw's lips like oil. "That's neither
here nor there. I'd like to have him down Acapulco way, dear lad. . .
And now, here's my plan all changed. I'll have my young lady out to stop
the duel, and, God's love, she'll come alone. Once here she's ours, and
they may cut each other's throats as they will, sweetheart."
He crossed the yard, tried the door,--unlocked, as he had left it,--
pushed it open, and went in, groping his way to the door of the dining-
room. He listened, and there was no sound. Then he heard some one go
in. He listened again. Whoever it was had sat down. Very carefully he
felt for the spring and opened the door. Jessica was seated at the table
with paper and an ink-horn before her. She was writing. Presently she
stopped--the pen was bad. She got up and went away to her room.
Instantly Bucklaw laid his plan. He entered as she disappeared, went to
the table and looked at the paper on which she had been writing. It bore
but the words, "Dear Friend." He caught up the quill and wrote hurriedly
beneath them, this:
"If you'd see two gentlemen fighting, go now where you stopped them last
night. The wrong one may be killed unless."
With a quick flash of malice he signed, in half a dozen lightning-like
strokes, with a sketch of his hook. Then he turned, hurried into the
little hall, and so outside, and posted himself beside a lilac bush,
drawing down a bunch of the flowers to drink in their perfume. Jessica,
returning, went straight to the table. Before she sat down she looked up
to the mantel, but the swords were there. She sighed, and a tear
glistened on her eyelashes. She brushed it away with her dainty
fingertips and, as she sat down, saw the paper. She turned pale, caught
it up, read it with a little cry, and let it drop with a shudder of fear
and dismay. She looked round the room. Everything was as she had left
it. She was dazed. She stared at the paper again, then ran and opened
the panel through which Bucklaw had passed, and found the outer door
ajar. With a soft, gasping moan she passed into the garden, went swiftly
by the lilac bush and on towards the trees. Bucklaw let her do so; it
was his design that she should be some way from the house. But, hidden
by the bushes, he was running almost parallel with her. On the other
side of her was Radisson, also running. She presently heard them and
swerved, poor child, into the gin of the fowler! But as the cloak was
thrown over her head she gave a cry.
The firs, where Iberville and Gering had just plucked out their swords,
were not far, and both men heard. Gering, who best knew the voice, said
hurriedly: "It is Jessica!"
Without a word Iberville leaped to the open, and came into it ahead of
Gering. They saw the kidnappers and ran. Iberville was the first to
find what Bucklaw was carrying. "Mother of God," he called, "they're
taking her off!"
"Help! help!" cried Gering, and they pushed on. The two ruffians were
running hard, but it had been an unequal race at the best, and Jessica
lay unconscious in Bucklaw's arms, a dead weight. Presently they plunged
into the bushes and disappeared. Iberville and Gering passed through the
bushes also, but could neither see nor hear the quarry. Gering was wild
with excitement and lost his presence of mind. Meanwhile Iberville went
beating for a clue. He guessed that he was dealing with good woodsmen,
and that the kidnappers knew some secret way out of the garden. It was
so. The Dutch governor had begun to build an old-fashioned wall with a
narrow gateway, so fitted as to seem part of it. Through this the two
had vanished.
Iberville was almost in despair. "Go back," he suddenly said to Gering,
"and rouse the house and the town. I will get on the trail again if I
can."
Gering started away. In this strange excitement their own foolish
quarrel was forgotten, and the stranger took on himself to command; he
was, at least, not inexperienced in adventure and the wiles of desperate
men. All at once he came upon the wall. He ran along it, and presently
his fingers felt the passage. An instant and he was outside and making
for the shore, in the sure knowledge that the ruffians would take to the
water. He thought of Bucklaw, and by some impossible instinct divined
the presence of his hand. Suddenly he saw something flash on the ground.
He stooped and picked it up. It was a shoe with a silver buckle. He
thrilled to the finger-tips as he thrust it in his bosom and pushed on.
He was on the trail now. In a few moments he came to the waterside. He
looked to where he had seen the Nell Gwynn in the morning, and there was
never a light in view. Then a twig snapped, and Bucklaw, the girl in his
arms, came bundling out of the trees upon the bank. He had sent Radisson
on ahead to warn his boat's crew.
He saw Iberville as soon as Iberville saw him. He knew that the town
would be roused by this time and the governor on fire for revenge. But
there was nothing for it but fight. He did not fear the result. Time
was life to him, and he swung the girl half behind him with his hook-hand
as Iberville came on, and, whipping out his hanger, caught the
Frenchman's thrust. Instantly he saw that his opposite was a swordsman,
so he let the girl slip to the ground, and suddenly closing with
Iberville, lunged desperately and expertly at him, straight for a mortal
part. But the Frenchman was too agile and adroit for him: he took the
thrust in the flesh of his ribs and riposted like lightning. The pirate
staggered back, but pulled himself together instantly, lunged, and took
his man in the flesh of his upper sword arm. Iberville was bleeding from
the wound in his side and slightly stiff from the slash of the night
before, but every fibre of his hurt body was on the defensive. Bucklaw
knew it, and seemed to debate if the game were worth the candle. The
town was afoot, and he had earned a halter for his pains. He was by no
means certain that he could kill this champion and carry off the girl.
Moreover, he did not want Iberville's life, for such devils have their
likes and dislikes, and he had fancied the chivalrous youngster from the
first. But he doubted only for an instant. What was such a lad's life
compared with his revenge? It was madness, as he knew, for a shot would
guide the pursuit: none the less, did he draw a pistol from his belt and
fire. The bullet grazed the lad's temple, carrying away a bit of his
hair. Iberville staggered forwards, so weak was he from loss of blood,
and, with a deep instinct of protection and preservation, fell at
Jessica's feet. There was a sound of footsteps and crackling of brush.
Bucklaw stooped to pick up his prey, but a man burst on him from the
trees. He saw that the game was up and he half raised his knife, but
that was only the mad rage of the instant. His revenge did not comprise
so unheard-of a crime. He thought he had killed Iberville: that was
enough. He sprang away towards the spot where his comrades awaited him.
Escape was his sole ambition now. The new-comer ran forwards, and saw
the boy and girl lying as they were dead. A swift glance at Iberville,
and he slung his musket shoulderwards and fired at the retreating figure.
It was a chance shot, for the light was bad and Bucklaw was already
indistinct.
Now the man dropped on his knee and felt Iberville's heart. "Alive!" he
said. "Alive, thank the mother of God! Mon brave! It is ever the same
--the great father, the great son."
As he withdrew his hand it brushed against the slipper. He took it out,
glanced at it, and turned to the cloaked figure. He undid the cloak and
saw Jessica's pale face. He shook his head. "Always the same," he said,
"always the same: for a king, for a friend, for a woman! That is the Le
Moyne."
But he was busy as he spoke. With the native chivalry of the woodsman,
he cared first for the girl. Between her lips he thrust his drinking-
horn and held her head against his shoulder.
"My little ma'm'selle-ma'm'selle!" he said. "Wake up. It is nothing--
you are safe. Ah, the sweet lady! Come, let me see the colour of your
eyes. Wake up--it is nothing."
Presently the girl did open her eyes. He put the drinking-horn again to
her lips. She shuddered and took a sip, and then, invigorated, suddenly
drew away from him. "There, there," he said; "it is all right. Now for
my poor Iberville." He took Iberville's head to his knee and thrust the
drinking-horn between his teeth, as he had done with Jessica, calling him
in much the same fashion. Iberville came to with a start. For a moment
he stared blindly at his rescuer, then a glad intelligence flashed into
his eyes.
"Perrot! dear Nick Perrot!" he cried. "Oh, good--good," he added
softly. Then with sudden anxiety:
"Where is she? Where is she?"
"I am safe, monsieur," Jessica said gently; "but you--you are wounded."
She came over and dropped on her knees beside him.
"A little," he said; "only a little. You cared for her first?" he asked
of Perrot.
Perrot chuckled. "These Le Moynes!" he said: under his breath. Then
aloud: "The lady first, monsieur."
"So," answered Iberville. "And Bucklaw--the devil, Bucklaw?"
"If you mean the rogue who gave you these," said Perrot, touching the
wounds, which he had already begun to bind, "I think he got away--the
light was bad."
Jessica would have torn her frock for a bandage, but Perrot said in his
broken English: "No, pardon. Not so. The cloak la-bas."
She ran and brought it to him. As she did so Perrot glanced down at her
feet, and then, with a touch of humour, said: "Pardon, but you have lost
your slipper, ma'm'selle?"
He foresaw the little comedy, which he could enjoy even in such painful
circumstances.
"It must have dropped off," said Jessica, blushing. "But it does not
matter."
Iberville blushed too, but a smile also flitted across his lips. "If you
will but put your hand into my waistcoat here," he said to her, "you will
find it." Timidly she did as she was bid, drew forth the slipper, and
put it on.
"You see," said Iberville, still faint from loss of blood, "a Frenchman
can fight and hunt too--hunt the slipper."
Suddenly a look of pain crossed her face.
"Mr. Gering, you--you did not kill him?" she asked. "Oh no,
mademoiselle," said Iberville; "you stopped the game again."
Presently he told her what had happened, and how Gering was rousing the
town. Then he insisted upon getting on his feet, that they might make
their way to the governor's house. Stanchly he struggled on, his weight
upon Perrot, till presently he leaned a hand also on Jessica's shoulder-
she had insisted. On the way, Perrot told how it was he chanced to be
there. A band of coureurs du bois, bound for Quebec, had come upon old
Le Moyne and himself in the woods. Le Moyne had gone on with these men,
while Perrot pushed on to New York, arriving at the very moment of the
kidnapping. He heard the cry and made towards it. He had met Gering,
and the rest they knew.
Certain things did not happen. The governor of New York did not at once
engage in an expedition to the Spaniards' country. A brave pursuit was
made, but Bucklaw went uncaptured. Iberville and Gering did not make a
third attempt to fight; Perrot prevented that. Iberville left, however,
with a knowledge of three things: that he was the first Frenchman from
Quebec who had been, or was likely to be, popular in New York; that
Jessica Leveret had shown a tender gratitude towards him--naive, candid--
which set him dreaming gaily of the future; that Gering and he, in spite
of outward courtesy, were still enemies; for Gering could not forget
that, in the rescue of Jessica, Iberville had done the work while he
merely played the crier.
"We shall meet again, monsieur," said Iberville at last; "at least, I
hope so."
"I shall be glad," answered Gering mechanically. "But 'tis like I shall
come to you before you come to me," added Iberville, with meaning.
Jessica was standing not far away, and Gering did not instantly reply.
In the pause, Iberville said: "Au revoir! A la bonne heure!" and walked
away. Presently he turned with a little ironical laugh and waved his
hand at Gering; and laugh and gesture rankled in Gering for many a day.
ETEXT EDITOR'S BOOKMARKS:
Love, too, is a game, and needs playing
To die without whining
*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TRAIL OF THE SWORD, V1, BY PARKER ***
*********** This file should be named 6206.txt or 6206.zip ***********
This eBook was produced by David Widger
Project Gutenberg eBooks are often created from several printed
editions, all of which are confirmed as Public Domain in the US
unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we usually do not
keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition.
We are now trying to release all our eBooks one year in advance
of the official release dates, leaving time for better editing.
Please be encouraged to tell us about any error or corrections,
even years after the official publication date.
Please note neither this listing nor its contents are final til
midnight of the last day of the month of any such announcement.
The official release date of all Project Gutenberg eBooks is at
Midnight, Central Time, of the last day of the stated month. A
preliminary version may often be posted for suggestion, comment
and editing by those who wish to do so.
Most people start at our Web sites at:
https://gutenberg.org or
http://promo.net/pg
These Web sites include award-winning information about Project
Gutenberg, including how to donate, how to help produce our new
eBooks, and how to subscribe to our email newsletter (free!).
Those of you who want to download any eBook before announcement
can get to them as follows, and just download by date. This is
also a good way to get them instantly upon announcement, as the
indexes our cataloguers produce obviously take a while after an
announcement goes out in the Project Gutenberg Newsletter.
http://www.ibiblio.org/gutenberg/etext03 or
ftp://ftp.ibiblio.org/pub/docs/books/gutenberg/etext03
Or /etext02, 01, 00, 99, 98, 97, 96, 95, 94, 93, 92, 92, 91 or 90
Just search by the first five letters of the filename you want,
as it appears in our Newsletters.
Information about Project Gutenberg (one page)
We produce about two million dollars for each hour we work. The
time it takes us, a rather conservative estimate, is fifty hours
to get any eBook selected, entered, proofread, edited, copyright
searched and analyzed, the copyright letters written, etc. Our
projected audience is one hundred million readers. If the value
per text is nominally estimated at one dollar then we produce $2
million dollars per hour in 2002 as we release over 100 new text
files per month: 1240 more eBooks in 2001 for a total of 4000+
We are already on our way to trying for 2000 more eBooks in 2002
If they reach just 1-2% of the world's population then the total
will reach over half a trillion eBooks given away by year's end.
The Goal of Project Gutenberg is to Give Away 1 Trillion eBooks!
This is ten thousand titles each to one hundred million readers,
which is only about 4% of the present number of computer users.
Here is the briefest record of our progress (* means estimated):
eBooks Year Month
1 1971 July
10 1991 January
100 1994 January
1000 1997 August
1500 1998 October
2000 1999 December
2500 2000 December
3000 2001 November
4000 2001 October/November
6000 2002 December*
9000 2003 November*
10000 2004 January*
The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation has been created
to secure a future for Project Gutenberg into the next millennium.
We need your donations more than ever!
As of February, 2002, contributions are being solicited from people
and organizations in: Alabama, Alaska, Arkansas, Connecticut,
Delaware, District of Columbia, Florida, Georgia, Hawaii, Illinois,
Indiana, Iowa, Kansas, Kentucky, Louisiana, Maine, Massachusetts,
Michigan, Mississippi, Missouri, Montana, Nebraska, Nevada, New
Hampshire, New Jersey, New Mexico, New York, North Carolina, Ohio,
Oklahoma, Oregon, Pennsylvania, Rhode Island, South Carolina, South
Dakota, Tennessee, Texas, Utah, Vermont, Virginia, Washington, West
Virginia, Wisconsin, and Wyoming.
We have filed in all 50 states now, but these are the only ones
that have responded.
As the requirements for other states are met, additions to this list
will be made and fund raising will begin in the additional states.
Please feel free to ask to check the status of your state.
In answer to various questions we have received on this:
We are constantly working on finishing the paperwork to legally
request donations in all 50 states. If your state is not listed and
you would like to know if we have added it since the list you have,
just ask.
While we cannot solicit donations from people in states where we are
not yet registered, we know of no prohibition against accepting
donations from donors in these states who approach us with an offer to
donate.
International donations are accepted, but we don't know ANYTHING about
how to make them tax-deductible, or even if they CAN be made
deductible, and don't have the staff to handle it even if there are
ways.
Donations by check or money order may be sent to:
Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation
PMB 113
1739 University Ave.
Oxford, MS 38655-4109
Contact us if you want to arrange for a wire transfer or payment
method other than by check or money order.
The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation has been approved by
the US Internal Revenue Service as a 501(c)(3) organization with EIN
[Employee Identification Number] 64-622154. Donations are
tax-deductible to the maximum extent permitted by law. As fund-raising
requirements for other states are met, additions to this list will be
made and fund-raising will begin in the additional states.
We need your donations more than ever!
You can get up to date donation information online at:
https://www.gutenberg.org/donation.html
***
If you can't reach Project Gutenberg,
you can always email directly to:
Michael S. Hart
Prof. Hart will answer or forward your message.
We would prefer to send you information by email.
**The Legal Small Print**
(Three Pages)
***START**THE SMALL PRINT!**FOR PUBLIC DOMAIN EBOOKS**START***
Why is this "Small Print!" statement here? You know: lawyers.
They tell us you might sue us if there is something wrong with
your copy of this eBook, even if you got it for free from
someone other than us, and even if what's wrong is not our
fault. So, among other things, this "Small Print!" statement
disclaims most of our liability to you. It also tells you how
you may distribute copies of this eBook if you want to.
*BEFORE!* YOU USE OR READ THIS EBOOK
By using or reading any part of this PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm
eBook, you indicate that you understand, agree to and accept
this "Small Print!" statement. If you do not, you can receive
a refund of the money (if any) you paid for this eBook by
sending a request within 30 days of receiving it to the person
you got it from. If you received this eBook on a physical
medium (such as a disk), you must return it with your request.
ABOUT PROJECT GUTENBERG-TM EBOOKS
This PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm eBook, like most PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm eBooks,
is a "public domain" work distributed by Professor Michael S. Hart
through the Project Gutenberg Association (the "Project").
Among other things, this means that no one owns a United States copyright
on or for this work, so the Project (and you!) can copy and
distribute it in the United States without permission and
without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, set forth
below, apply if you wish to copy and distribute this eBook
under the "PROJECT GUTENBERG" trademark.
Please do not use the "PROJECT GUTENBERG" trademark to market
any commercial products without permission.
To create these eBooks, the Project expends considerable
efforts to identify, transcribe and proofread public domain
works. Despite these efforts, the Project's eBooks and any
medium they may be on may contain "Defects". Among other
things, Defects may take the form of incomplete, inaccurate or
corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other
intellectual property infringement, a defective or damaged
disk or other eBook medium, a computer virus, or computer
codes that damage or cannot be read by your equipment.
LIMITED WARRANTY; DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES
But for the "Right of Replacement or Refund" described below,
[1] Michael Hart and the Foundation (and any other party you may
receive this eBook from as a PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm eBook) disclaims
all liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including
legal fees, and [2] YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE OR
UNDER STRICT LIABILITY, OR FOR BREACH OF WARRANTY OR CONTRACT,
INCLUDING BUT NOT LIMITED TO INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE
OR INCIDENTAL DAMAGES, EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE
POSSIBILITY OF SUCH DAMAGES.
If you discover a Defect in this eBook within 90 days of
receiving it, you can receive a refund of the money (if any)
you paid for it by sending an explanatory note within that
time to the person you received it from. If you received it
on a physical medium, you must return it with your note, and
such person may choose to alternatively give you a replacement
copy. If you received it electronically, such person may
choose to alternatively give you a second opportunity to
receive it electronically.
THIS EBOOK IS OTHERWISE PROVIDED TO YOU "AS-IS". NO OTHER
WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, ARE MADE TO YOU AS
TO THE EBOOK OR ANY MEDIUM IT MAY BE ON, INCLUDING BUT NOT
LIMITED TO WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTABILITY OR FITNESS FOR A
PARTICULAR PURPOSE.
Some states do not allow disclaimers of implied warranties or
the exclusion or limitation of consequential damages, so the
above disclaimers and exclusions may not apply to you, and you
may have other legal rights.
INDEMNITY
You will indemnify and hold Michael Hart, the Foundation,
and its trustees and agents, and any volunteers associated
with the production and distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm
texts harmless, from all liability, cost and expense, including
legal fees, that arise directly or indirectly from any of the
following that you do or cause: [1] distribution of this eBook,
[2] alteration, modification, or addition to the eBook,
or [3] any Defect.
DISTRIBUTION UNDER "PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm"
You may distribute copies of this eBook electronically, or by
disk, book or any other medium if you either delete this
"Small Print!" and all other references to Project Gutenberg,
or:
[1] Only give exact copies of it. Among other things, this
requires that you do not remove, alter or modify the
eBook or this "small print!" statement. You may however,
if you wish, distribute this eBook in machine readable
binary, compressed, mark-up, or proprietary form,
including any form resulting from conversion by word
processing or hypertext software, but only so long as
*EITHER*:
[*] The eBook, when displayed, is clearly readable, and
does *not* contain characters other than those
intended by the author of the work, although tilde
(~), asterisk (*) and underline (_) characters may
be used to convey punctuation intended by the
author, and additional characters may be used to
indicate hypertext links; OR
[*] The eBook may be readily converted by the reader at
no expense into plain ASCII, EBCDIC or equivalent
form by the program that displays the eBook (as is
the case, for instance, with most word processors);
OR
[*] You provide, or agree to also provide on request at
no additional cost, fee or expense, a copy of the
eBook in its original plain ASCII form (or in EBCDIC
or other equivalent proprietary form).
[2] Honor the eBook refund and replacement provisions of this
"Small Print!" statement.
[3] Pay a trademark license fee to the Foundation of 20% of the
gross profits you derive calculated using the method you
already use to calculate your applicable taxes. If you
don't derive profits, no royalty is due. Royalties are
payable to "Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation"
the 60 days following each date you prepare (or were
legally required to prepare) your annual (or equivalent
periodic) tax return. Please contact us beforehand to
let us know your plans and to work out the details.
WHAT IF YOU *WANT* TO SEND MONEY EVEN IF YOU DON'T HAVE TO?
Project Gutenberg is dedicated to increasing the number of
public domain and licensed works that can be freely distributed
in machine readable form.
The Project gratefully accepts contributions of money, time,
public domain materials, or royalty free copyright licenses.
Money should be paid to the:
"Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation."
If you are interested in contributing scanning equipment or
software or other items, please contact Michael Hart at:
[email protected]
[Portions of this eBook's header and trailer may be reprinted only
when distributed free of all fees. Copyright (C) 2001, 2002 by
Michael S. Hart. Project Gutenberg is a TradeMark and may not be
used in any sales of Project Gutenberg eBooks or other materials be
they hardware or software or any other related product without
express permission.]
*END THE SMALL PRINT! FOR PUBLIC DOMAIN EBOOKS*Ver.02/11/02*END*
