THE STORY OF ADVENTURE
THE STORY OF ADVENTURE
By T. MORRIS LONGSTRETH
An American author and lover of natural scenery. His books onThe Adirondacks,andThe Catskillsare enticements into the mountain world. He is a writer for many periodicals.
An American author and lover of natural scenery. His books onThe Adirondacks,andThe Catskillsare enticements into the mountain world. He is a writer for many periodicals.
The romantic story of adventure deals with events that are far from being the events of daily life. Usually such a story has for its setting an unusual scene.Prunier Tells a Storydeals with events that come into very few lives; its setting is a region into which very few people penetrate. The principal character, the French-Canadian Prunier, is likewise a type of person with whom few are acquainted.At the same time, the story is told with a degree of naturalness that makes it seem real. The French-Canadian is brought into touch with daily life by the presence of his two listeners, who are people of the ordinary world, and one of whom is a boy.The story is not told merely for wild event: it hangs upon character and upon noble purpose. It emphasizes courage, ability, self-sacrifice and faith.The setting of the story is so used that it contributes in a marked degree to the entire effect. As one reads he feels himself in the icy north, in the grip of cold and darkness where wild events are altogether probable.
The romantic story of adventure deals with events that are far from being the events of daily life. Usually such a story has for its setting an unusual scene.
Prunier Tells a Storydeals with events that come into very few lives; its setting is a region into which very few people penetrate. The principal character, the French-Canadian Prunier, is likewise a type of person with whom few are acquainted.
At the same time, the story is told with a degree of naturalness that makes it seem real. The French-Canadian is brought into touch with daily life by the presence of his two listeners, who are people of the ordinary world, and one of whom is a boy.
The story is not told merely for wild event: it hangs upon character and upon noble purpose. It emphasizes courage, ability, self-sacrifice and faith.
The setting of the story is so used that it contributes in a marked degree to the entire effect. As one reads he feels himself in the icy north, in the grip of cold and darkness where wild events are altogether probable.
THE PILLAR OF CLOUD BY DAY
It was after supper one November evening, at Wilderness House, with the sleet dancing on the eaves and the great forest of Wildyrie closing us about with its dark presence, when Essex Lad and I stumbled by chance on the fact that we didn't have to read books for adventure, but merely touch Prunier in some-story-telling place, and then—listen.
Prunier, you remember, is the blue-shirted, black-hatted French-Canadian who lives with us and thinks he works. He is a broad-shouldered, husky, simple-faced man of forty, who never opens his mouth unless it be to point out a partridge we are overlooking or to put in his black pipe. He spent his youth in the great Northland, where adventures are as common as black flies in a swamp, and yet he had never even explained the scar across his cheek, or the white patch on his scalp where some other excitement had been registered, until that evening when I had closed the Bible.
“Tink dat true?” he had suddenly asked.
I had been reading them how the Lord God had led Moses and the children of Israel across that other wilderness by a pillar of cloud by day and a pillar of fire by night. It had roused him strangely.
“I know it true,” he said, “forle bon Dieushow me way by pillars of cloud and fireaussi. If you want story, I tole you dat wan,moi-même.”
It was our turn to be excited. Here was luck—a vacant evening, a hearth fire, and Prunier promisingune longue histoire, as he called it. We formed a semi-circle before the blazing birch, and, with the dull beat of the sleet above us for accompaniment, listened for the first word that would launch the black-eyed man upon his tale. It was long coming. He relit the pipe, recrossed his legs, muttered once “Pore ole Pierre,” and stopped. We ceased to breathe; for though I could command him to cut wood and wash dishes, I could not force from him a syllable about “Pore ole Pierre” until he was good and ready.
“Monsieur Moseset moi, we have purty hard times in wilderness widout doze pillars,” he said.
The Lad and I gave a nervous laugh. I could not fancy myself personally conducting forty thousand Hebrews, even through Wildyrie, without much assistance.
“Yaas,” he said, “purty hard. I now begin.”
And begin he did, slowly and with his quaint talk seasoned with his habitant French, which I'll have to omit in my retelling.
“It was a night just like this, in my little cabin on Wolf River. It had rained and then frozen, and the dark closed in with sleet. A very good night to be indoors, thought ole Pierre and I. Ole Pierre was my best friend, an old husky, who had been trapping with me four—five years. He knew all that men know, I think, as well as all that dogs understand, and he could smell a werewolf in the twilight.”
“A werewolf, what's that?” was on the very opening of the Lad's lips, but he held back the question.
“A werewolf, you know,” went on Prunier, “is worse than real wolf, for it is in the air—a ghost-wolf. That is why ole Pierre sometimes howled in his sleep and kept her from visiting us. That is why I put a candle in the window every dusk-time. As you shall see, it was lucky habit.
“Eh bien, that night I was sorting over my traps, for I thought it would turn cold after the storm. Then I would cross Breknek Place and begin the winter's trapping.
“Breknek Place is its name, because the sides of Wolf River come very close together, almost so near a man can jump. Indeed its name is really because a trapper like me was surprised by the wolves and ran for it. But he was too scared, and missed. They never got his body, the wolves, because the river runs so fast down to the Smoky Pool. Smoky Pool is a warm cove in the St. Lawrence that freezes last, and from which clouds of vapor rise on still days into the colder air.
“I never intended to be washed down that way, and in the summer I felled a tree from bank to bank, a broad hemlock, big enough to run a sledge over, almost; and that save many miles walking up river to Portage du Loup. I never intended, either, to be run by the wolves, you bet! And ole Pierre and I were pretty-very careful to be inside at the candle-lighting time.
“That night our cabin was very quiet, like this, for the sleet was a little pleasant sound, and ole Pierre was dreaming of old hunts, and I was on the floor with the traps, when both the dog and I were brought out of our thoughts by a wildcry, very faint and far away, but as sharp and sudden as a cut of lightning on a summer night.
“The hair on the back of my neck rises just like ole Pierre's, for I know it is the werewolf. And he looks at me and whines, for he knows it, too. I rush and light a second candle, though I have not too many, and look out the pane. But of course, there is nothing to be seen, nothing to be heard, except the moaning of wind in the dark. Yet later I hear a noise, very weak, very unsteady, as if a person was approaching.
“Ole Pierre howls low in his throat and scratches on the door. I reprove him: 'Are you possessed, ole Pierre? There is no soul within sixty—seventy miles. And you and I have done nothing that should let the werewolf in.'
“But it was fearful hearing that stealthy approach, stopping long, then many steps, and a groan. I get out the Bible and read fast. But there comes atap-tapat the door, and I tremble so the book almost falls from my hand, and ole Pierre, he calls to his saints, too.
“What is the use of looking out, for who can see a werewolf?
“Presently there is no noise. Thetap-tapstops; and except for a noise as of a bundle of something dropping against the door, there is nothing to hear except the dull sleet on the eaves, ole Pierre crying in his throat, and thetrip-tripof my heart that goes like a werewolf pounding on my ribs. A voice inside me says open the door. But another voice says 'That is a werewolf trick and you will be carried away, Prunier.' Twenty times my hand is on the bolt.
“At last I can stand it no longer,—that voice inside saying to me to open,—and I rush to it and throw it open before I have time to think, and a body falls in, against my legs. A long, thin body it is, and I hesitate to touch it, for a werewolf can take any form. But a groan comes from it, and I have not the heart to push it out into the dark. I prop it by the fire and its eyes droop open. 'Food—tie up food.' That is the first word it says.
“I push some medicine for weakness into his mouth, and his life comes back little by little. 'You must take food to her,' he says; and soon again, 'The ship by Smoky Pool—she starves in it—my sister.'
“Indeed, I soon saw that he was faint from long travel and no feeding, and perhaps a sickness past thrown in, for he faints much between parts of his account. But I gather the news that he had come very far from some deserted ship in which a sister was starving to death; and alone, since his three partners had cleared out. He begged of me to leave him and take food for her. He cried out that he was dying, and I had to believe him; for death's shadows sat at the entrance to his eyes. I made him glad by placing bread beside him, and by putting on my Mackinaw and the pack after it, in which I had put food.
“A fever of uneasiness stirred him between faints until I had lit a lantern and called to ole Pierre to follow. Then joy shone in his worn eyes, and a blessing on us both followed us out into the icy night.
“With a last look through the window at the stranger, who had now, as I thought, closed his eyes in surrender to the end, ole Pierre and I turned into the endless forest on our long trail to the Smoky Pool. The sleet was freezing as it fell, and the rays of my lantern lit the woods, which seemed made of marble, the dark trunks glistening, the laden boughs hanging down like chandeliers in a cathedral, and the shrubs glittering like ten million candles as we passed. In such a place, I thought, no werewolf dare attack us.
“Instead, I thought of the trail ahead, the long miles till we come to Breknek Place, the long miles after to the ice-locked arm of the St. Lawrence near by the Smoky Pool. On such an errand we had nothing to fear, though outside the lantern-shine it was as dark as the one of Monsieur Moses' bad plagues you have read to the Lad so lately.
“We had got within three—four miles of Wolf River, ole Pierre slip-slipping on the ice in front of me, the lantern swinging, my pack beginning to feel like a rest, when for the second time that night a cry shivers across the distance,an awful sound for a lonely man to hear in the night forest.
“It is a long howl, fierce and almost gladsome, like when the evil one is clutching a new victim. And it is answered from the other side of the night by another howl, and then a chorus from both sides at once. And then the trail turns, and I know the pack of them is not chasing deer far away, but chasingme,us. For ole Pierre knows it, too, and crouches whining at my feet. Ole Pierre knows there is no escape, like me.
“Have you ever seen a wolf-pack run down a deer by turns, leap at its throat, and pull it down? I have once, nearTrois Rivières, from a safe place on a mountain. And it was bad enough to be in the safe place, only watching. But that night how much worse! I pat ole Pierre on the head and tell him to cheer up, there is no use dying three—four times ahead of time. And as I say that, I think of that other man chased by wolves who had tried to leap at Breknek Place.
“'Tiens!ole Pierre,' I cry, 'let us do better!' And off I start at a dead run, feet slipping sideways, lantern swinging, pack rising, falling, like a rabbit's hind leg, with ole Pierre chasing after. It is less than a mile to the narrow gorge. Could we make that, perhaps I could throw the big hemlock in and stop them from crossing after us. A revolver is no good against a pack, and going up a tree is only putting off till to-morrow their big feast on habitant.
“The quick motion of our running put courage in our blood, and after a little while even ole Pierre's brush waves higher in the air, as if he had remembered some fight of old, and we gallop. We gallop, but the wolves they gallop too. First on one side far off, then on the other nearer, and ever as the trail winds in a new direction they sound like pack on pack of them, although there might have been less than ten. It is only late in the winter with us, when the snow is deep, that they gather into big packs to pull down the moose.
“At length, breathless, very tired, but still ahead of them, ole Pierre and I come out into the clear space just before the river. It was very slippery with frozen sleet, and I fall once—twice; and ole Pierre slide here—there, like a kitten onnew ice. Ahead of us roars the river through the deep gorge. Behind on two sides the howling comes from the forest, and once, when I look back, I see them. But that can't be, for it is so dark. Yet I imagine I see them—black, racing forms, tongues out, muzzles sharp and red, and a green-yellow fire from the eyes.
“And it was so. For before we reach the fallen hemlock, our bridge to safety, two come between us and the river. With a yell, I fire straight where they were, but it is too dark, too slippery to hit, and they only circle back to wait till their partners come up. I fling myself down breathless, weak, for just two seconds' wind.
“'Cross ole Pierre, cross over,mon enfant!' And he trotted to the long log, but crawled back with his tail dragging, and whined about me. Black shadows, five, ten, twelve maybe, circled outside the ring of my lantern-light, and the green-yellow eyes were no imagination now. But they were quiet, intent on closing in. With the lantern, which was our only salvation from their fangs, in one hand and my revolver in the other, I backed to the hemlock, calling to ole Pierre to follow. He is trembling, and I soon know why; for when I put my foot on our bridge to safety, it cannot stay, and I nearly plunge headlong into the rocky stream thirty feet below. The log was slippery with frozen mist. We were trapped. At our backs, a river not to be crossed; about us, a crew of wolves getting bolder every minute.
“'Courage, ole Pierre!' I cried; and I fired once into them. There was a shrill howl and cry, and several made a rush toward us, instead of away. I drop the lantern to load my revolver. Ole Pierre brushes against it, and in a second it starts to glide down the slope on the sleet-ice. It goes faster, I gaping after it, slips with a flicker over the edge, and we hear it crash and tinkle on the rocks down there!
“Quel horreur!It was savage. The kerosene flares up, and for once I see the whole scene plainly: the gorge, a great leap wide at its narrowest, spouting light; the ice-silvered hemlock-bridge leading to safety, but uncrossable except for a circus-dancer; a fringe of bushes, with the sudden-illuminatedforms of strong-shouldered wolves cowering in their surprise at the light.
“Ole Pierre and I had three minutes,—I thought the kerosene would last that long,—then darkness, a rush from the dark, hot fangs feeling for the throat, and there would be no ole Pierre, no Prunier to rescue the girl in the ship from starvation.
“And at the thought of her came the picture of my little cabin, the fire we had left, the coziness of it. It made me mad—to die!
“'Quick, ole Pierre,' I say. 'Allons!We will crawl over the bridge,' and I kneel on it. But my knees slip. I sit on it and push myself along, until I can see the wrecked lantern, going slowly out. I call to ole Pierre, and he comes out two—three paces, whines, cries, lies down and trembles. The light is fading and when it goes it is our end. But I cannot leave ole Pierre.
“I crawl back and take him in my arms, a very big arm-load. The light is fading. I cannot see the bushes. And the eyes of the indistinct brutes again begin to gleam. They approach the end of the tree. Ole Pierre is too big to carry, and I set him down to fix my cartridges so that I can get them easily. It is not so long to dawn. If we can hold them at the end of the bridge till dawn, we might live.
“Suddenly a fearful thing happens: the kerosene flares up in a dying leap, then the dark rushes at us, and, with a concert of snarls, the pack comes with it. Ole Pierre is brave, but, as they reach us, the rush of them cannot stop on the ice, and I feel the hair of one, I hear his jaws. I know that they are pushing toward the edge, and in the dark I have to feel for ole Pierre.
“There is an awful melée, and I fire. By the flash I see ole Pierre by the brink, with two big wolves upon him. I drop my revolver to clutch at him. A dark form leaps at me. I have my knife in my teeth. I drive it hard and often, sometimes growling like a wolf myself, sometimes calling to ole Pierre.
“Once more the lantern flares enough to show the blood onmy knife, the heap of struggling forms flung on my dog, and as it dies for the last time I fancy them sliding—sliding. I rush to save him, but must beat back a great hot-breathed creature whose jaws just scrape my scalp. We are all sliding together now, faster, faster, toward the edge of the gorge. A dripping muzzle tears my cheek,—it is this scar you see,—but with both hands I throttle it; and clutching with a sort of madness, I hold as we go over the edge—down, all together down—Poor ole Pierre!”
Prunier stopped. For an hour Essex Lad and I had listened, more and more intently, until now, when the subdued sound of his slow-speaking ceased, we were both gripping the edge of our chairs, falling over the edge of that gorge with him, sympathetically. I could have imagined the least noise into the click of jaws.
But there was no noise, the Lad sitting perfectly rigid, speechless, staring at the man. Presently he put out a hand, slowly, and touched the guide as if to make sure that the fall had not been fatal. And still neither of us spoke. Prunier was going to recommence. He opened his mouth, but it was only to yawn.
“Mon Dieu,” he said, “but I sleep! It ees very late.” And the man actually rose.
“But 'mon Dieu,'” I said, “you can't leave us falling over a precipice! What happened? Tell us at least what happened. And you haven't even mentioned the pillar of fire or of smoke.”
“C'est une très longue histoire.” [“It is a very long story.”]
“Poor ole Pierre!” said the Lad, as if coming out of a dream; “did it kill him?”
Prunier shook his head, no. “It kill only the wolves we landed on—geplump!We had stopped on a gravel ledge, with the cold breath of the river rushing by a foot away. I never lose sense. I begin chuck wolves into the river. Three—four—five, in they go, my back bending, my back straightening, andgesplash!another howl down-stream! I think I never lose sense. But I did.” He stopped again, and rubbeda slow hand across his summer-tanned brow. “I must have losed sense. In the morning there arenoanimals on the ledge.”
“You mean—” began the Lad, and did not finish. Prunier nodded.
“But he would not have lived anyway,” I said, to ease the pain in his memory. “Ole Pierre could not have lived with all the wolf-bites he must have had.”
“I hope he know I was not in my sense,” said Prunier. “Alors, dawn came soon, and I cross the stream on big rocks and climb up birch sapling to the opposite bank. I look back. No sign of wolves. I look forward, no sign of life to the north pole, no forest even, just endless plain to the frozen river endless far away.
“I give a big groan, for there is no strength in my legs, no courage in my heart, and I feel like falling on my knees and askingle bon Dieuto show me the way. And it was as if He had heard, for suddenly my eye is caught by a thin pillar of white ascending into the gray sky.
“'Courage,' I said, 'it is His sign.' I fixed my torn pack, bound up my cheek and scalp, and made over the glassy surface of the plain straight where the pillar led me. On and on I stumbled. I would never have reached my errand's end but for that pillar of smoke. And if I had not reached it.—” Again there was a pause. Then, “I will tell some other time,” he said, “c'est une longue histoire.”
Not another word could we get from him, and we soon turned in. The last thing I remember was the Lad's voice coming to me from his bed, “Don't forget, Lucky, we'll get his pillar of fire out of him, too.”