Burned Bridges - Bertrand W. Sinclair (best ereader for academics txt) 📗

The Cabin.

 

But Even Forewarned As He Was His Heart Sank A Few Degrees Nearer To His

Square-Toed Shoes When He Stepped Over The Threshold And Looked About.

Little,  Forgotten Things Recurred To Him,  Matters Touched Upon Lightly,

Airily,  By The Deacons And Elders Of The Board Of Missions When His

Appointment Was Made. He Recalled Hearing Of A Letter In Which His

Predecessor Had Renounced That Particular Field And The Ministry

Together,  With What To Thompson Had Seemed The Blasphemous Statement

That The North Was No Place For Either God Or Man.

Chapter 2 (The Deserted Cabin) Pg 18

The Place Was Foul With Dirt And Cobwebs,  Full Of A Musty Odor. The

Swallows Had Nested Along The Ridge-Pole. They Fluttered Out Of The

Door,  Chattering Protest Against The Invasion. Rat Nests Littered The

Corners And The Brown Rodents Scuttled Out With Alarmed Squeaks. The

Floor Was Of Logs Roughly Hewn To Flatness. Upon Four Blocks Stood A

Rusty Cookstove. A Few Battered,  Smoke-Blackened Pots And Pans Stood On

A Shelf And Hung Upon Nails Driven In The Walls. A Rough Bedstead Of

Peeled Spruce Poles Stood In A Corner. The Remains Of A Bedtick Moldered

On The Slats,  Its Grass Stuffing Given Over To The Nests Of The Birds

And Rodents.

 

It Was So Utterly And Dishearteningly Foreign To The Orderly

Arrangement,  The Meticulous Neatness Of The Home Wherein Thompson Had

Grown To Young Manhood Under The Tutelage Of The Prim Spinsters That He

Could Scarcely Accept As A Reality That This,  Henceforth,  Was To Be His

Abode.

 

He Could Only Stand,  With A Feeling In His Throat That Was New In His

Experience Of Emotions,  Staring In Dismay At This Forlorn Habitation

Abandoned To Wind And Weather,  To The Rats And The Birds.

 

 

 

Chapter 3 (In Which Mr. Thompson Begins To Wonder Painfully) Pg 19

To Breyette And Macdonald That Forlorn Cabin Was After All Nothing New

Or Disheartening In Their Experience. They Knew How A Deserted House

Goes To Rack And Ruin. They Knew Also How To Restore Such An Abandoned

Place To A Measure Of Its Original Homeliness. And Neither The Spectacle

Of The One Nor The Labor Of The Other Gave Them Any Qualms. They Were

Practical-Minded Men To Whom Musty,  Forsaken Cabins,  Isolation,  The

Hollow Emptiness Of The North,  The Sultry Heat Of The Brief Summer,  The

Flies,  The Deep Snows And Iron Frosts Of The Long Winter,  Were A Part Of

Their Life,  The Only Life They Knew.

 

But They Were Not Wholly Devoid Of Sentiment And Perception. They

Recognized In Thompson A Lively Susceptibility To Certain Disagreeable

Things Which They Accepted As A Matter Of Course. They Saw That He Was

Rather Less Capable Of Coping With Such A Situation Than A Ten-Year-Old

Native Boy,  That A Dirty Cabin In A Lonely Clearing Made Him Stand

Aghast. And So--Although Their Bargain With Him Was Closed When They

Deposited Him And His Goods On The Bank Of Lone Moose--They Set To Work

With Energy To Renovate His Forlorn-Looking Abode.

 

They Made Short Work Of The Rats' And The Swallows' Nests. Breyette

Quickly Fashioned A Broom Of Fine Willow Twigs,  Brought Up A Shovel From

The Canoe,  And Swept And Shovelled The Place Out. Macdonald Meanwhile

Cleared The Weeds And Grass From A Space Before The Cabin And Burned Up

Chapter 3 (In Which Mr. Thompson Begins To Wonder Painfully) Pg 20

The Unseemly Refuse. The Stove Fulfilled Its Functions Perfectly Despite

The Red Rust Of Disuse. With Buckets Of Boiling Water They Flooded And

Drenched The Floor And Walls Till The Interior Was As Fresh And Clean As

If New Erected.

 

The Place Was Habitable By Sundown. While The Long Northern Twilight

Held The Three Of Them Carried Up The Freight That Burdened The Canoe,

And Piled It In One Corner,  Sacks Of Flour,  Sides Of Bacon And Salt

Pork,  Boxes Of Dried Fruit,  The Miscellaneous Articles With Which A Man

Must Supply Himself When He Goes Into The Wilderness.

 

That Night They Slept Upon A Meager Thickness Of Blanket Spread On The

Hard Floor.

 

In The Morning Mike Went To Work Again. He Showed Thompson How To

Arrange A Mattress Of Hemlock Boughs On The Bed Frame. It Was A Simple

Enough Makeshift,  Soft And Springy When Thompson Spread His Bedding Over

It. Then Mike Superintended The Final Disposition Of His Supplies So

That There Would Be Some Semblance Of Order Instead Of An

Indiscriminately Mixed Pile In Which The Article Wanted Was Always At

The Bottom. Incidentally He Strove To Impart To Thompson Certain

Rudimentary Principles In The Cooking Of Simple Food. He Illustrated The

Method Of Mixing A Batch Of Baking-Powder Bread,  And How To Parboil Salt

Pork Before Cooking,  Explained To Him The Otherwise Mysterious

Expansion Of Rice And Beans And Dried Apples In Boiling Water,  All Of

Which Breyette Was Shrewd Enough To Realize That Thompson Knew Nothing

About. He Had A Ready Ear For Instructions But A Poor Understanding Of

These Matters. So Mike Reiterated Out Of His Experience Of Camp Cooking,

And Thompson Tried To Remember.

 

Meanwhile,  Macdonald,  Who Had Vanished Into The Woods With A Rifle In

His Hand At Daybreak,  Came Back About Noon With A Deer's Carcass Slung

On His Sturdy Back. This,  After It Was Skinned,  The Two Breeds Cut Into

Pieces The Thickness Of A Man's Wrist And As Long As They Could Make

Them,  Rubbed Well With Salt And Hung On A Stretched Line In The Sun. The

Purpose And Preparation Of "Jerky" Was Duly Elucidated To Thompson;

Rather Profitless Explanation,  For He Had No Rifle,  Nor Any Knowledge

Whatever In The Use Of Firearms.

 

"Bagosh,  Dat Man Ah'm Wonder W'ere Hees Raise," Mike Said To His Partner

Once When Thompson Was Out Of Earshot. "Hees Ask More Damfool Question

Een Ten Minute Dan A Man Hees Answer Een T'ree Day. W'at Hees Gon' Do

All By Heemself Here Ah Don' Know 'Tall,  Mac. Bagosh,  No!"

 

By Midafternoon All That Was Possible In The Way Of Settling Their Man

Had Been Accomplished,  Even To A Pile Of Firewood Sufficient To Last Him

Two Weeks. Macdonald Contributed That After One Brief Exhibition Of

Thompson's Axemanship. Short Of Remaining On The Spot Like A Pair Of

Swarthy Guardian Angels There Was No Further Help They Could Give Him,

And Their Solicitude Did Not Run To That Beneficent Extreme. And So

About Three O'clock Mike Breyette Surveyed The Orderly Cabin,  The Pile

Of Chopped Wood,  And The Venison Drying In The Sun,  And Said Briskly:

 

"Well,  M'sieu Thompson,  Ah Theenk We Go Show You Hon Lone Moose Village

Now. Dere's One W'ite Man Ah Don' Know 'Tall. But Der's Breed Familee

Call Lachlan,  Eef She's Not Move 'Way Somew'ere. Dat Familee She's Talk

Henglish,  And Ver' Fond Of Preacher. S'pose We Go Mak Leetle Veesit Hon

Dem Lachlan,  Eh? Ah Theenk Us Two Feller We're Gon' Beet Dat Water Weeth

Chapter 3 (In Which Mr. Thompson Begins To Wonder Painfully) Pg 21

De Paddle Een De Morneeng."

 

A Man Does Not Easily Forego Habits That Have Become Second Nature.

Breyette And Macdonald Put On Their Dilapidated Hats,  Filled Their

Pipes,  And Were Ready For Anything From A Social Call To A Bear Hunt.

Thompson Had To Shave,  Wash Up,  Brush His Hair,  Put On A Tie And Collar,

Which Article Of Dress He Donned Without A Thought That The North Was

Utterly Devoid Of Laundries,  That He Would Soon Be Reduced To Flannel

Shirts Which He Must Wash Himself. His Preparations Gave The Breeds

Another Trick Of His To Grin Slyly Over. But Thompson Was Preparing

Himself To Face The Units Of His Future Congregation,  And He Went About

It Precisely As He Would Have Gone About Getting Ready For A Conference,

Or A Cup Of Tea With A Meeting Of The Ladies' Aid. Eventually,  However,

The Three Set Out Across The Trunk-Littered Clearing.

 

The Thin Place In The Belt Of Timber To The Northward Proved Barely A

Hundred Yards Deep. On The Farther Side The Brushy Edge Of The Woods

Gave On The Open Meadow Around Which The Lone Moose Villagers Had Built

Their Cabins. Thompson Swept The Crescent With A Glance,  Taking In The

Dozen Or So Dwellings Huddling As It Were Under The Protecting Wings Of

The Forest,  And His Gaze Came To Rest On The More Impressive Habitation

Of Sam Carr.

 

"Dat's White Man Married Hon Enjun Woman," Breyette Responded To

Thompson's Inquiry. "Ah Don' Never See Heem Maself. Lachlan She's Leev

Over There."

 

Left To Himself Thompson Would Probably Have Gravitated First To A Man

Of His Own Blood,  Even Though He Had Been Warned To Approach Carr With

Diplomacy. But There Was No Sign Of Life About The Carr Place,  And His

Men Were Headed Straight For Their Objective,  Walking Hurriedly To Get

Away From The Hungry Swarms Of Mosquitoes That Rose Out Of The Grass.

Thompson Followed Them. Two Weeks In Their Company,  With A Steadily

Growing Consciousness Of His Dependence Upon Them,  Had Inclined Him To

Follow Their Lead.

 

They Found Lachlan At Home,  A Middle-Aged Scotch Half-Breed With A House

Full Of Sons And Daughters Ranging From The Age Of Four To Twenty. How

Could They All Be Housed In Three Small Rooms Was Almost The First

Dubious Query Which Presented Itself To Thompson. His Mind,  To His Great

Perplexity,  Seemed To Turn More Upon Incongruities Than Upon His Real

Mission There. That Is,  To Thompson They Seemed Incongruities. The

Little Things That Go To Make Up A Whole Were Each Impinging Upon Him

With A Force He Could Not Understand. He Could Not,  For Instance,  Tell

Why He Thought Only With Difficulty,  With Extreme Haziness,  Of The

Great Good He Desired To Accomplish At Lone Moose,  And Found His

Attention Focussing Sharply Upon The People,  Their