Joan of Arc of the North Woods - Holman Day (best book recommendations .txt) 📗

you, Father! But we can't do it," said the spokesman. "We're Latisan's men. The rest of the gang will laugh us out of the crew if we go back."
"I'll have Latisan himself on the job inside of a few days, my men," declared the priest, stoutly.
He had promised to them another who would take the drive master's place; now he promised Latisan. The men were merely puzzled; they were not convinced.
"Will you go back?"
"We can't go back." It was said with conviction, and a mumble of voices indorsed him. "Still, all respect to you, Father! But Latisan won't fit any longer even if he does go back. He has let himself be goofered."
Father Leroque had set up his temporary altar in many a lumber camp; he knew woodsmen; therefore, he knew that argument with those men would be idle.
"You have heard," he said to Lida when the two walked away deeper into the shadows. "I'm sorry. But so the matter stands."
"But if I go now and talk to them--confess to them----"
"They are Latisan's own men, and the story is fresh, and their resentment is hot. You will not prevail, mam'selle. And if you fail to-night with those men you risk failing with all. You must go on to the drive--talk to the others who are still loyal. I fear much, I must warn you, but I will not try to keep you from what seems to be your duty. It would be too great unhappiness for you if you should go back now, feeling that you had not done your best."
The bandsmen had eaten of the wedding feast and were again valorously making gay music outside the workshop building from whose windows poured light and laughter.
"I can't go back in there--I can't!" sobbed Lida. "Right now I want to hide away."
With gentle understanding the priest escorted her to the door of the sachem's cottage. "I will pray for you, that the morning may bring good courage again. I will talk with you then--in the morning."
She stammered broken words of gratitude and escaped to the covert of the little room.
Father Leroque went back to the wedding party and called the governor out into the night. For a long time the two conferred, walking to and fro under the big pines.


CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Sunrise was crystal clear, with frosty crispness, for April in the northern latitudes flirts long with Winter on his way to everlasting snows. Lida saw the sun come quivering over the big trees and sat by her window, continuing the doleful ponderings which had made the night black and dismal. There was no cheer for her in the morning radiance; as she faced what was ahead of her, new fear grew in her; faith in herself was waning after the defection of Latisan's men. Would Echford Flagg's own crew stand by a stricken master or hearken to the appeal of Flagg's kin?
The rivermen guests had departed; there were no bateaus on the shore; faint smoke came wreathing from the black embers of the feast fire.
Early as it was, there was the stir of life in the other rooms of the cottage, and she ventured forth timidly into the presence of the governor's family. The little mirror in her room had revealed to her the pallor of her face and the mournful anxiety in her eyes.
There was no talk at breakfast; the family copied the manner of the governor, who had greeted Lida with a single word, gestured her to her chair, and now ate in silence. All his festal trappings had been laid aside; he was a grave, wrinkled man in the ordinary attire of a woodsman. In her new humility Lida wondered how she would summon courage to ask for canoemen to take her north. The impulse to keep on toward the drive was no longer so keen and courageous and absorbing, she realized. She had dreamed vividly when she stood in the presence of Echford Flagg; but she had begun to face practicality, and the difficulties frightened her.
Before the breakfast was finished, Father Leroque came in; he had lodged in the quarters provided for his visits, a small room in the vestry.
The sisters who taught the boys and girls of the community had brought his food. But he sat at the elbow of the governor's wife and drank the coffee that she poured for him. He was cheery, vivacious, and he smiled consolingly on Lida, who was not able to return his morning optimism. His arrival broke the fetters of silence, and even Susep Nicola joined in the chatter which the priest kept stirring.
Lida kept her gaze on the floor and saw the broad shaft of sunlight shift slowly and relentlessly, marking the passage of precious time.
"I must go," she said, suddenly, looking into the countenance of Nicola.
"Yes."
"I'm afraid I ought to have been on my way before."
"It's for you to say when you go; you are welcome here," he returned. "I have waited for you to say." It was according to his code of hospitality--the guest must indicate desire. He rose. His wife brought to Lida the jacket and the cap. But the chief picked up the Flagg cant dog and carried it when he led the way to the door.
Father Leroque seemed to understand what was in Lida's mind just then. "You are worried about how you are to travel, is it not so? You do not need to ask, mam'selle!" He bowed her to the door.
In front of the sachem's house hung a broad disk of tanned moosehide in a frame. Nicola pounded on the makeshift gong with a mallet. Men assembled quickly in front of him, coming as if they had expected the summons.
"You know. I have told you," said the chief. He stroked his hand over the totem mark on the cant dog handle. "You know how our brother has been the good friend of the Tarratines on this river."
One step in advance of the others of the throng stood Felix Lapierre, the bridegroom.
"How many?" asked the chief.
"Twenty," said Felix. "And all very much happy to do the good service."
The priest smiled into the amazed eyes of the girl. "For your conveyance? Ah no, mam'selle. For your good help on the drive. They are rivermen--the best. Felix Lapierre leads them and you shall see for yourself what a king of the white water he is. He will be your right-hand man on the drive. It is all very fine, eh, mam'selle?"
She was staring from face to face, overwhelmed. She could not reply.
"We talk it over--him and me--last night," said Nicola, indicating the priest by a respectful bow. "It's for my brother, and the blood of my brother." He bowed to her.
"And all so very happy," repeated Felix. His black eyes sparkled and he flung up his hands in the gay spirit of emprise. "You must not care because some have run away. They would not be good in a crew if they feel that way now. We feel good. We shall work for you; we are your men."
The big matter, this astounding making good of her forces, this rallying of volunteers in such chivalrous and unquestioning fashion--she found herself unable to handle the situation in her thoughts or treat it with spoken words just then. But the other--the human thing----
"It's--it's the honeymoon," she stammered. "It will be taking you away from your wife."
"She's my girl," put in Nicola. "She tells him to go."
Father Leroque perceived Lida's distressful inability to pull herself together at that moment, and he employed his ready tact, giving her time for thought. "It's quite a natural thing, this taking away of the new bridegroom for the service of the Flaggs," he declared with a chuckle. "There's even a song--I think it was written by Poet O'Gorman. Do you know it, Felix? I can see by your grin that you do. Very well. Let's have it. As I remember it, it states the case according to the Flagg methods."
Lapierre pulled off his cap; his eyes were alight with merriment; he sang gayly:
The night that I was married--the night that I was wed-- Up there came old Echford Flagg and rapped on my bed head. Said he, "Arise, young married man, and come along with me, Where the waters of the Noda they do roar along so free."
"You see!" suggested the priest, archly, smiling, palms spread. "When Flagg calls, the honeymoon must wait. It promises good adventure, and Felix would be sorry if he were not in it."
Cap in hand, Lapierre swept his arm in a broad gesture of respectful devotion. It was a touch of gallantry which raised the affair above the prosaic details of mere business and which made the relations closer than those of employer and employed.
In Lida gratitude was succeeding amazement, and the glow of that gratitude was warming her courage into life again. When she had stepped from Nicola's door a few moments before she felt bitterly alone and helpless and she had no eye for the glory of the day. Suddenly the sunshine seemed transcendently cheery. All the aspects of the case were changed. Now she could go on to the drive as one of the Flaggs should go--with loyal men at her back to replace those who had deserted. She could hearten a broken crew with men, not merely with a strange girl's plaintive story and appeal.
"We're ready, mam'selle," said Felix.
The women of the community were gathered in front of the sachem's house.
Lapierre went smiling to his bride and put his arm about her; but when he started to draw her toward Lida the latter anticipated the coming by running to meet them. She took the little bride in her arms.
The priest, Felix, and the governor swapped looks and nods which indorsed an understanding that was wordless between the young women.
When Lida turned from the governor's daughter she saw the governor himself coming toward her. He held out the cant dog; it lay across his palms and he tendered it respectfully.
She winked the mist of tears from her eyes and struggled with a hysterical desire to babble many words.
"Hush!" warned the priest. "We all know!"
There, in a golden silence, she realized how cheap and base was the clinking metal of speech that had been the currency of herself and others in the crowded town.
The river, slowed by the deadwater, was mute, though its foam streaks showed where it had crashed through the gorges above. A few chickadees chirruped bravely. There were no other sounds while the girl took the Flagg scepter in her own hands.
She walked with Felix to the shore, where the flotilla of canoes lay upturned at the pull-out place. Again the Oronos were assigned to her, and she was comforted much because they no longer seemed like strangers.
"Au revoir!" called Father Leroque when the canoes were afloat on the brown flood. "I'm making haste to the Tomah, mam'selle, to keep my promise!"
He had already accomplished so much for her! In her new thanksgiving spirit she was finding it easy to believe that he could bring about what her self-acknowledged love for Latisan so earnestly desired.
In single file, holding close to the shore, the canoes went toward the north. There was no talk between those who paddled; against the brown shore the canoes were merely moving smudges.
Rufus Craig, coming down the middle of the deadwater in one of the great bateaus of the Comas company, paid no attention to the smudges. The bateau rode high and rapidly on the flood that moved down the channel. Craig was