CHAPTER IX
THE BROKEN PIPE
For nearly the whole night, Donald McTavish had paced the bare
little room that had been set aside for him. Now, he looked at his
watch. It was four o'clock.
The thought occurred to him that he ought to get some rest, but
immediately his common sense told him that for twenty-five days
more he would have nothing to do but rest, and, spurred on by the
witches that rode his racing mind, he continued his animal-like
pacing. Up one side, across past the foot of the bed; back again
and down; that was his route. And, while his feet traversed but
seven or eight yards, his mind was speeding across all the
leagueless spaces of the Northland.
Where was she? Where was she? This was the continual refrain that
rang in his ears. For five days now, Jean Fitzpatrick had been
gone; swallowed up in the silent, snowy wastes. Who had taken her?
Why? And whither?
When Tee-ka-mee's announcement spread through the post, fifty men
had rushed out to the search, cursing, sobbing, or praying, each
according to his own temperament; for nowhere in all the Northland
was a girl more beloved than was Jean Fitzpatrick. Summer and
winter, the days were full of little kindnesses of hers, so that
her disappearance was not a signal for a “duty” search, but one in
which every man worked as though he alone had been to blame for
her loss.
Her toboggan had been found at the top of the hill where she and
Mrs. Gates had spent the morning, and on the hard crust a few dim
tracks could be seen leading into the forest, with now and then a
dent where, perhaps, the girl's snowshoe had gone through. But
aside from these unsatisfying clews not a trace of her could be
located.
For two days, the searchers took every trail, traveling light and
running swiftly, but to no avail. The girl had disappeared as though
evaporated by the sun.
Then did old Angus Fitzpatrick, bowed with grief, summon his council
and deliberate as to the affairs at Sturgeon Lake. Stern old
disciplinarian with others, he was none the less so with himself
in his dark hour, and even begrudged the two days of the Company's
time that he had used in the search for Jean.
Unanimously against him stood the entire council when he mentioned
the free-traders, and suggested that they be run to earth. His
chiefs of departments almost refused to embark on any project until
the factor's daughter should be found. But old Fitzpatrick with
the autocracy of thirty years in the Far North, snarled their
sentiments down with his own, and forced them to the Company's
business in hand.
And so it was at last decided that almost the entire force of men,
well-armed and well-provisioned, should take the trail for Sturgeon
Lake, led by the factor himself. Vainly, his lieutenants begged
the white-haired chief to remain in the comparative safety and
comfort of the fort. Declaring that this was the only trouble in
all his years in the North, and that he would put it down himself,
Fitzpatrick remained inexorable.
“Besides,” he added pathetically, “if anything should be heard from
Jean, I would be there to follow it up.”
All this Donald heard from Peter Rainy and his guards, as he sat
chafing in his little room. During the excitement, the captain of
Fort Dickey and his miraculous escape from death never entered the
minds of the community. Had it not been for Peter Rainy and the
guard, he would have fared ill indeed.
The morning of the fourth day, was hardest of all. Then, the fifty
men, with many dogs, sledges, and packs, tinkled out from the fort
across the icy river, sped on their way by the waving hands of
women, old men, and the furious few selected by lot to remain and
keep the big fort.
That same day, Peter Rainy, under strict orders from the factor,
who had at last recollected his prisoner, hitched up Buller's dogs,
and departed for Fort Dickey. Before he went, he had only a minute's
speech with McTavish, saying something at which the Scotchman shook
his head violently, and scowled with anger. Then, the guard came,
and the interview was at an end.
Now, on this dark morning, dismal thoughts marched through Donald's
mind. But what chafed him most was his forced inaction. For
twenty-five days more, he must sit in that pestilential prison
while all about him events of great moment were being lived, and
the girl he loved was perhaps dying in the merciless hands of her
father's enemies.
And, then, there was temptation because of something, barely
understood, that Rainy had mumbled.
“Break your pipe, and ask for the one in the hallway,” he had said.
This enigmatic remark should be explained. For years, the factor
at Fort Severn had kept in his hallway an enormous pipe-rack. Here,
in appropriate rings were souvenir pipes from every white man that
had ever visited the post. Most prized of all was one that had
belonged to the great governor of the Company, Sir George Simpson,
who yearly traveled thousands of miles in regal state, with red
banners floating from his canoes, and a matchless crew of Iroquois
paddlers whose traditional feats are unbroken even to this day.
There were pipes of all the governors and all the factors of the
post from its earliest foundation. Many of the men whose souvenirs
were there had long since been forgotten, yet their names and pipes
still remained.
In the fifth row, seventh from the left, hung a splendid briar
that Donald had contributed, and it was to this that Peter Rainy
had referred, since there was a rule that a man might borrow his
pipe if he needed it, but must be sure to have it returned to its
proper place.
Why should he break his pipe, and ask for the one in the hallway?
That in his pocket was sweet and rich and mellow, the one in the
hall an unsmoked instrument, which would keep his tongue blistered
for many a day. But how to get it, even should he want it? That
was a question he could not solve.
After a while, the prisoner, worn out with his long tramp, lay down
on his cot, and fell into a heavy sleep, from which he was awakened
by the old Indian, who came to bring him his breakfast. With the
latter came a message utterly disconcerting.
“Captain McTavish,” said the man, “there will be someone here to
visit you later this morning.”
“Who?”
“Miss Laura Fitzpatrick.”
Donald gasped.
“What have I done to deserve this punishment?” he asked himself.
And then, aloud: “Why is she coming to see me?”
“I don't know,” was the answer; “she merely told me to tell you.”
When the expedition departed to Sturgeon Lake, but two white women
had been left—Mrs. Gates, the missionary's wife, and Laura
Fitzpatrick. The latter, a maiden upward of thirty-five, had decided
to remain in solitary glory as mistress of the factor's house,
feeling amply protected by the few white men left at the post.
The captive had reasons for not desiring this visit, outside of
the possible impropriety. The summer before, during his happy weeks
in Jean's company, circumstances often shaped themselves so that
there were three persons on their little canoe trips and picnics—and
the third was Miss Fitzpatrick. Her ingenuity in these matters had
been positively remarkable. And the entire post had grinned up its
sleeve, knowing old Fitzpatrick's declaration that Jean should not
marry until Laura had been taken off his hands.
For the first time in her life, Laura had evinced an interest in
the genus man. Consequently, Donald now awaited her arrival with
some trepidation.
About eleven o'clock she came, unaccompanied except by the old
Indian who looked after McTavish's wants. She was small and spare,
and wore glasses that enlarged her mild blue eyes. She had overcome
nature's delinquency in the matter of luxurious hair by the
application of a “transformation,” done into numerous elastic curls.
Because of the difficulty of communication with the outside world,
this was now several shades lighter than her own, a fact which gave
her great pain, but was really quite unavoidable.
Leaving the door open, she sat down in the one chair, while Donald
leaned on his elbow in the deep window embrasure.
“Oh,” she gasped breathlessly, “I suppose you think I'm awful,
don't you, Captain?”
Her curls bobbed, and a faint color showed in her cheeks.
“Quite the contrary, Miss Fitzpatrick,” he replied, gravely. “I
feel that only the highest motives of—well—er—pity, have actuated
you to look in upon a man forced to take a month's rest. It was
really kind of you, but have you—er—that is, thought of yourself,
and what people might say when it becomes known?”
“Oh, dear,” she sighed, “of course that will have to be faced,
won't it? But I guess I'm old enough to be past scandal. Really,
you have no idea how old I'm getting to be, Captain McTavish.”
“A woman is only as old as her impulses, Miss Fitzpatrick,” replied
the captain, gallantly. “And your impulse this morning could hardly
place you above—let's see—twenty at the outside.”
The maiden lady appeared uncertain as to the possible compliment
in this statement, but at last decided to accept it.
“You're the same old flatterer, Captain, the very same,” she gurgled.
Presently, the conversation dragged.
Oldboy - Teeth
Tags: Oldboy - Teeth
“Do you know why I came to see you today?” asked Miss Fitzpatrick,
and, at Donald's negation, continued: “I thought you must be lonesome
out here, particularly with everyone gone on the expedition,
and—and—I came to tell you that I think your imprisonment is the
most unjust thing I ever heard of.”
“Do you, really?” cried the young man, eagerly.
“I certainly do, and I spoke to father about it, severely. For a
time, I thought I was going to get you off, but something seemed to
occur to him, and he got angry, and said not to mention the subject
again. But I thought I would tell you just what I think of it.”
“I can't thank you enough,” said Donald, approaching her impulsively,
for the little woman's efforts in his behalf really touched him.
“I didn't know I had a friend in the world until this minute, and
I tell you I'm grateful—more so than you have any idea. You were
more than good, and I sha'n't forget it.”
At his approach, Miss Fitzpatrick had pushed her chair back nervously
several inches, and, now, Donald turned away to hide the smile that
would struggle to his face, despite his efforts at suppression. To
bridge the situation, he pulled his pipe from his pocket, and began
to examine it intently.
“And that isn't all,” continued Miss Fitzpatrick, nerving herself
for speech so that her curls quivered violently. “I want you to
know that I will do anything in my power to make your confinement
here easier, and will always have your interest at heart wherever
you are... There!
“You are a dear little woman, and I'm overwhelmed with your kindness,”
said Donald, in the deep, rich voice he unconsciously used when
moved. And, at that, the scarlet tide of joy that had been hovering
uncertainly in Miss Fitzpatrick mounted with a rush and suffused
her pale little face.
“Now,” she went on briskly, to cover her confusion, “there are a
lot of newspapers at the house that of course you haven't read.
I'll send them over, with a book or two Mrs. Ponshette, at York,
sent down for Christmas. You really must do something to pass
the time.”
Once more, Donald thanked her, when suddenly, without the slightest
intention, his pipe slipped from his fingers, and fell to the floor.
With an exclamation of annoyance, he picked it up, to find that
the amber stem had broken off close to the brier, rendering it
almost useless. Now he must have the other pipe, despite what Peter
Rainy had hinted, and who could get it but Laura Fitzpatrick?
Showing her the broken pieces in his hand, he exclaimed that life
would be unbearable without tobacco, and asked her to send his
reserve pipe over from the rack in the hall. This she promised to
do, and a little later rose to take her leave.
“You're not a good host, Captain McTavish,” she said, at the doorway.
“Why?” he questioned.
“You haven't asked me to call again.”
“Forgive me!” cried the confused man. “Please, come as often as
you wish. I have enjoyed the visit immensely.”
“So have I,” she returned, with a coy, sidelong look from her mild
blue eyes, and then, at last, she shut the door behind her.
Donald was really grateful for the call, as it had taken his mind
from the brooding that had occupied it so continuously, and, for
hours afterward, he smiled almost unconsciously at the quaint
transparency, but utter good-heartedness, of the woman's character.
Early in the afternoon, the promised package of papers and the pipe
arrived. The prisoner, who, like all northern woodsmen, found a
pipe his boon companion, filled the bowl with tobacco, and tried
to light it.
Somehow, the brier would not draw, and McTavish impatiently unscrewed
the stem from the bowl to investigate. In the small cavity thus
exposed, he saw an obstruction which, when dug out with a pin,
proved to be a sheet of thin paper, very carefully rolled.
Straightening it out, Donald saw pencil-marks in strange triangles.
There were V's and U's placed in any of four positions, and queer
symbols that resembled the “pot-hooks” of shorthand more than
anything else.
For a moment, he stared perplexed, and then memory returned to him.
This was, indeed, a message from Peter Rainy, and written In the
only language the old Indian could use—the Cree symbols into which
the Bible had been translated by the zealous missionary, James
Evans, back in the fifties. On long winter nights at Fort Dickey,
Peter Rainy had taught his superior to read and write in this
obsolete fashion.
Now, Donald bent to the work. The first words came hard, but, before
he had finished the paper, he was reading easily. And this, freely
translated, is what he saw:
I will be a mile in the woods, along the old beaver trail, from
the fifth night after Miss Jean's departure until the tenth. If
you do not come by then I will go back to Fort Dickey and return
for you when your month is up. There is work for you to do. I
have a clew as to Miss Jean, but you must act at once if you
expect to save her. I have sawed the bars of your window almost
through at the bottom. When in the woods call me with the cry
of an owl.
PETER.
And, having read, Donald McTavish mechanically lighted his pipe,
and began to smoke furiously.
