THE HOLOCAUST
THE HOLOCAUST
THE HOLOCAUST
“Man, I’d sooner they’d put out my eyes, or cut out my tongue. I’d sooner they’d set my body to everlasting torture. Look! Look there! Yes, and there! Oh, God! It’s everywhere the same.” A shaking hand was outthrust. “Dead! Mutilated! Old men! Old women! And poor little bits of life that had only just begun. The barbarity! The monstrousness!”
Marty Le Gros, the missionary of the Hekor River, spoke in a tone that was almost choking with grief. His eyes, so dark and wide, were full of the horror upon which they gazed. His Gallic temperament was stirred to its depths. The heart of the man was overflowing with pity and grief, and outraged parental affection.
Usak, the Indian, his servant, stood beside him. He offered no verbal comment. His only reply to the white-man was a low, fierce, inarticulate grunt, which was like the growl of some savage beast.
The men were standing at the entrance to a wide clearing. The great Hekor River flowed behind them, where the canoe they had just left swung to the stream, moored at the crude landing stage of native manufacture. They were gazing upon the setting of a little Eskimo encampment. It was one of the far flung Missions which claimed the spiritual service of Le Gros. He had only just arrived from his headquarters at Fox Bluff, on the river, near by to Fort Cupar the trading post, on his monthly visit, and the hideous destruction he had discovered left him completely staggered and helpless.
The devastation of the settlement was complete. Dotted about the clearing, grimly silhouetted against a background of dull green woods, stood the charred remains of a dozen and more log shanties. Broken and burnt timbers littered the open ground, and filled the room spaces where the roofs had fallen. Every habitation was burnt out stark. Not even the crude household goods had been spared.
But this was the least of the horror the two men gazed upon. The human aspect of the destruction was a thousand-fold more appalling. The ground was littered with mutilated dead. As the missionary had said, there were old men, old women, and babes torn from their mothers’ arms. Silent and still, death reigned everywhere. The young men? The young women? There was no sign of these. And therein lay a further horror which the onlookers were swift to appreciate.
The hideous fascination of the scene held them. But at last it was Usak who broke from under its spell.
“Euralians!” he cried fiercely. And again in his voice rang that note which sounded like the goaded fury of some creature of the forest.
The Euralians!
To the mind of every far northwestern man, in that territory which lies hundreds of miles beyond the efficient protection of the northern police, the name of this people was sufficient to set stirring a chill of unvoiced terror that was something superstitious. Who they were? It was almost impossible to say. It was still a problem in the minds of even the farthest travelled trail men and fur hunters. But they were known to all as a scourge of the far flung border which divides Alaska from the extreme north of Yukon Territory.
The threat they imposed on the region was constantly growing. It had grown lately from the marauding of mere seal ground and fur poachers, who came down out of the iron fastnesses beyond the Arctic fringes of Alaska, where they lived hidden in security beyond the reach of the strong arm of the United States law, into a murder scourge threatening all human life and property within reach of their ruthless operations.
Hitherto, Le Gros had only known them from the tales told by the native pelt hunters, the men who came down to trade at Fort Cupar. He knew no more and no less than the rest of the handful of white folks who peopled the region. The stories he had had to listen to, for all their corroborative nature, were, he knew, for the most part founded upon hearsay. He had listened to them. He always listened to these adventurers. But somehow his gentle, philosophic mind had left him missing something of the awe and dread which beset the hearts of the men whose lurid stories took vivid colour from the stirring emotions which inspired them.
But now, now he was wide awake to the reality of the terror he had so largely attributed to superstitious exaggeration. Now he knew that no story he had ever listened to could compare with the reality. He was gazing upon a scene of hideous murder and wanton, savage destruction that utterly beggared description.
His feelings were torn to shreds, and his heart cried out in agony of helpless pity.
These poor benighted folk, these simple, peaceful Eskimo, amiable, industrious, yearning only for the betterment he was able by his simple ministrations to bring into their lives. What were they to claim such barbarity from a savage horde? What had they? What had they done? Nothing. Simply nothing. They were fisher-folk who spent their lives in the hunt, asking only to be left in peace to work out the years of their desperately hard-lived lives. Now—now they were utterly wiped out, a pitiful sacrifice to the insensate lust of this mysterious scourge.
Le Gros thrust his cap from his broad forehead. It was a gesture of impotent despair.
“God in Heaven!” he cried, and the words seemed to be literally wrung from him.
“It no use to call Him.”
The Indian’s retort came on the instant. And his tone was harshly ironical.
“What I tell you plenty time,” he went on sharply. “The great God. He look down. He see this thing. He do nothing. No. It this way. Man do this. Yes. Man do this. Man must punish this dam Euralian. I know.”
The missionary turned from the slaughter ground. He searched the Indian’s broad, dusky face. It was a striking face, high-boned and full of the eagle keenness of the man’s Sioux Indian forbears. He was a creature of enormous stature, lean, spare and of tremendous muscle. For all he was civilized, for all he was educated, this devoted servant lacked nothing of the savage which belonged to his red-skinned ancestors.
Servant and master these two comrades in a common cause stood in sharp contrast. Usak was a savage and nothing could make him otherwise. Usak was a man of fierce, hot passions. The other, the whiteman, except for his great stature, was in direct antithesis. The missionary was moulded in the gentlest form. He was no priest. He represented no set denomination of religion. He was a simple man of compassionate heart who had devoted his life to the service of his less fortunate fellow creatures where such service might help them towards enlightenment and bodily and spiritual comfort.
He had been five years on his present mission at Fox Bluff. He had come there of his own choice supported by the staunch devotion of a young wife who was no less prepared to sacrifice herself. But now he stood almost alone, but not quite. For though death had swiftly robbed him of a wife’s devotion, it had left him with the priceless possession they had both so ardently yearned. The motherless Felice was at home now in the care of Pri-loo, the childless wife of Usak, who had gladly mothered the motherless babe.
Even as he gazed into the Indian’s furious eyes Le Gros’ mind had leaped back to his home at Fox Bluff. A sudden fear was clutching at his heart. Oh, he knew that Fox Bluff was far away to the east and south. He knew that the journey thither from the spot where they stood was a full seven days’ of hard paddling on the great river behind them. But Pri-loo and his infant child were alone in his home. They were utterly without protection except for the folk at the near-by Fort. And these Euralians, if they so desired, what was to stop them with the broad highway of the river which was open to all?
He shook his head endeavouring to stifle the fears that had suddenly beset him.
“You’re wrong, Usak,” he said quietly. “God sees all. He will punish—in his own good time.”
Usak’s fierce eyes snapped.
“You say that? Oh, yes. You say that all the time, boss,” he cried. “I tell you—no. You my good boss. You mak me man to know everything so as a whiteman knows. You show me all thing. You teach me. You mak me build big reindeer farm so I live good, an’ Pri-loo eat plenty all time. Oh yes. I read. I write. I mak figgers. You mak me do this thing. You, my good boss. I mak for you all the time. I big heart for you. That so. But no. I tell you—No! The great God not know this thing. He not know this Euralian wher’ he come from. No. Not no more as you he know this thing. But I know. I—Usak. I know ’em all, everything.”
At another time the missionary would have listened to the man’s quaint egoism with partly shocked amusement. His final statement, however, startled him out of every other feeling.
“You know the hiding-place of these—fiends?” he demanded sharply.
Usak nodded. A curious vanity was shining in the dark eyes which looked straight into the whiteman’s.
“I know him—yes,” he said.
“You’ve never told a thing of this before?”
There was doubt in the missionary’s tone, and in the regard of his brown eyes.
“I know him,” Usak returned shortly. Then, in a moment, he flung out his great hands in a vehement gesture. “I say I know him—an’ we go kill ’em all up.”
All doubt was swept from the missionary’s mind. He understood the passionate savagery underlying the Indian’s veneer of civilization. The man was in desperate earnest.
“No.” Le Gros’ denial came sharply. Then his gaze drifted back to the scene of destruction, and a deep sigh escaped him. “No,” he reiterated simply. “This is not for us. It is for the police. If you know the hiding-place of these—”
“No good, boss. No,” Usak cried, in fierce disappointment. “The p’lice? No. They so far.” He held up one hand with two fingers thrusting upwards. “One—two p’lice by Placer. An’ Placer many days far off. No good.” He shrugged his great shoulders. “Us mans all dead. Yes. Pri-loo all dead. Felice dead, too. All mans dead when p’lice come. I know. You not know. You good man. You not think this thing. Usak bad man Indian. He think this thing all time. Listen. I tell you, boss, my good boss. I say the thing in my mind. The thing I know.”
He broke off and glanced in the direction of the river, and his eyes dwelt on the gently rocking canoe. He turned again, and his thoughtful eyes came once more to the scene of horror that infuriated his savage heart. He was like a man preparing to face something of desperate consequence. Something that might grievously disturb the relations in which he stood to the man to whom he believed himself to owe everything he now treasured in life. At last his hands stirred. They were raised, and moved automatically under emotions which no words of his were adequate to express.
“I big trail man,” he began. “I travel far. I go by the big ice, by the big hills, by the big water. I mak trade with all mans Eskimo. I mak big reindeer trade with him Eskimo, same as you show me, boss. So I go far, far all time. So I know this Euralian better as ’em all. I not say. Oh, no. It not good. Now I say. This mans Euralian look all time for all thing. Furs? Yes. They steal ’em furs, an’ kill ’em up all Eskimo. So Eskimo all big scare. Gold? Yes. They look for him all same, too. Oil? Yes. Coal? Yes. All this thing they look, look for all time. Him mans not Eskimo. They not Indian. They not whiteman. No. They damn foreign devil so as I not know. Him all mans live in whiteman house all time. Big house. I know. I find him house.”
The man’s unease had passed. He was absorbed in the thing he had to tell. Suddenly after a moment’s pause, he raised a hand pointing so that his wondering companion turned again to the spectacle he would gladly have avoided.
“Boss, you mak ’em this thing! You mak ’em kill all up! You!”
“I?”
Le Gros’ horrified gaze swept back to the face of the accusing man. The Indian was fiercely smiling. He nodded.
“You mak ’em this, but you not know. You not know nothing,” he said in a tone that was almost gentle. “Oh, I say ’em this way, but I not mean you kill ’em all up. You? No. Listen, boss,” he went on, coming close up and lowering his harsh tones. “You kill ’em all up because you tell all the mans you mak big find gold on Loon Creek. Boss, you tell the mans. You think all mans good like so as you. So you not hide this thing. You tell ’em, an’ you show big piece gold—two. Now you know how you kill ’em all up.”
Usak waited. The amazement in the eyes of the missionary gave place to a grave look of understanding.
“You mean that my story of the discovery of gold I made has caused—this?” He shook his head, and the question in his mild eyes was urgent. “How? Tell me, Usak, and tell it quick.”
The Indian nodded.
“Oh, it easy. Yes. You tell the story. It go far. It go quick. All mans know it. Gold! The good boss, Le Gros, find gold! Him Euralian. Ears, eyes, they all time everywhere. Him hear, too. Maybe himsee, too. I not say. Him mak big think. Him say: ‘This man, this good boss, him find gold! How we get it? How we rob him, an’ steal ’em all up gold! Euralian think. It easy. Le Gros good man. Us go. Us kill ’em all up him Mission. One Mission. Two Mission. All Mission. Then us go kill up all mans at Fort Cupar. Kill up Marty Le Gros an’ Usak. Then we get ’em all this gold.’”
There was fierce conviction in every word the man said. For all the crudeness of his argument, if argument it could be called, the force of his convictions carried weight even with a man who was normally devoid of suspicion. Then, too, there was still the horror of the spectacle in the clearing to yield its effect. But greater than all the other’s conviction or argument, greater than all else, was the missionary’s surge of terror for the safety of his little baby daughter with her nurse back there in his home.
Le Gros breathed deeply. His dark eyes were full of the gravest anxiety. For the moment he had forgotten everything but the personal danger he had suddenly realised to be threatening.
Usak was watching him. He understood the thing that was stirring behind the whiteman’s troubled eyes. He had driven home his conviction and he was satisfied. Now he awaited agreement with his desire that they should themselves go and deal with these fierce marauders. He saw no reason for hesitation. He saw nothing in his desire that could make it impossible, hopeless. But then he was a savage and only applied calm reason when passion left him undisturbed. The only thing to satisfy his present mood was to go, even singlehanded if necessary, and retaliate slaughter for slaughter.
Finally it was he again who broke the silence. The spirit driving him would not permit of long restraint.
“Us go, boss?” he urged.
Marty Le Gros suddenly bestirred himself. He shook his head.
“No,” he said. Then he pointed at the scene in front of them.
“We do this thing. The poor dead things must be hidden up. They were Christians, and we must give them Christian burial. After that we go. We go back home. There is my little Felice. There is your Pri-loo. They must be made safe.”
The man’s decision was irrevocable. The Indian recognised the tone and understood. But his disappointment was intense.
“Us not go?” he cried. His words were accompanied by a sound that was like a laugh, a harsh, derisive laugh. “So,” he said. “We bury ’em all these people. Yes. The good boss say so. Then we go home, an’ mak safe Felice. We mak safe Pri-loo. Then us all get kill up—sure.”