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Chapter Eight
Shifting Winds
Immediately on receipt of the note referred to, vigorous preparations were made to convey relief to Roderick McLeod. Such provisions as the party at Jenkins Creek could muster were packed into the smallest possible space, because the boat, or cobble, which was to convey them down the gulf was very small—scarcely large enough to hold the party which meant to embark in it. This party consisted of McLeod senior, Kenneth, and Flora, it being arranged that Ian and Rooney should remain to prosecute, as well as to guard, the works at the Creek.
Seeing that there was so little room to spare in the boat, Reginald Redding decided to hasten down on foot to the Cliff Fort, in order to see to the comfort of the wrecked men who had been sent there. He, however, offered the rescue party the services of his man, Le Rue, an offer which was accepted all the more readily that the Canadian possessed some knowledge of the coast.
It was very dark when they started, but, fortunately, calm. McLeod had resolved to travel night and day, if the weather permitted, until he should reach the scene of the wreck, and to take snatches of rest if possible in the boat.
There were only two oars in the boat, so that one of its crew was always idle. This, however, proved to be rather an advantage, for, by affording frequent relief to each rower, it saved the strength of all, and at the same time enabled them to relieve the tedium of the journey to poor Flora.
At first they proceeded along under the deep shade of the ghost-like cliffs in unbroken silence, the mind of each no doubt being busy with the wreck of their last remnant of fortune, as well as with the dangerous condition in which the youthful Roderick lay; but as the dawn of day approached they began to talk a little, and when the sun arose its gladdening beams appeared to carry hope to each breast, inducing an almost cheerful state of mind. In the case of François Le Rue, the influence of sunshine was so powerful that a feeling of sympathy and respect for the McLeods in the calamity which had overtaken them alone restrained him from breaking out into song!
“Father,” said Flora, as her sire, wearied by a long spell at the bow oar, resigned his seat to Kenneth, and sat down beside her, “that glorious light brings to my remembrance a very sweet verse, ‘Weeping may endure for a night, but joy cometh in the morning.’”
“True, true, Flo,” returned her father, “I wish I had the simple faith that you seem to possess, but I haven’t, so there’s no use in pretending to it. This,” he added bitterly, “seems only a pure and unmitigated disaster. The last remnant of my fortune is wrecked, I am utterly ruined, and my poor boy is perhaps dying.”
Flora did not reply. She felt that in his present state of mind nothing she could say would comfort him.
At that moment Le Rue suddenly roused himself and suggested that it was about time to think of breakfast.
As all the party were of the same mind, the boat was allowed to drift down the gulf with the tide, while the pork and biscuit-bags were opened. Little time was allowed for the meal, nevertheless the mercurial Canadian managed, between mouthfuls, to keep up a running commentary on things in general. Among other things he referred to the property which his master had just purchased in Partridge Bay.
“Whereabouts is this property that you talk of?” asked McLeod, becoming interested at the mention of Partridge Bay.
“About la tête of de village near de house of Monsieur Gambart.”
“What like a place is it?” asked McLeod, becoming suddenly much more interested.
“Oh! one place mos bootiful,” replied Le Rue, with enthusiasm; “de house is superb, de grounds splendeed, et le prospect magnifique, wid plenty of duck—perhaps sometimes goose, vild vons—in von lac near cliff immense.”
At the mention of the lake and the cliff McLeod’s brow darkened, and he glanced at Flora, who met his glance with a look of surprise.
“Did you happen to hear the name of the place?” asked McLeod.
“Oui, it vas, I tink, Lac Do, or Doo—someting like so.”
“The scoundrel!” muttered McLeod between his teeth, while a gleam of wrath shot from his eyes.
Le Rue looked at him with some surprise, being uncertain as to the person referred to by this pithy remark, and Flora glanced at him with a look of anxiety.
After a brief silence he said to Flora in a low tone, as though he were expressing the continuation of his thoughts, “To think that the fellow should thus abuse my hospitality by inducing me to speak of our fallen fortunes, and of our being obliged to part with the old home we had loved so well, and never to utter a word about his having bought the place.”
“Perhaps,” suggested Flora, “you had not mentioned the name of the place, and so it might not have occurred to him that—”
“Oh yes, I did,” interrupted her father, with increasing anger, as his memory recalled the converse with Redding on the preceding night, “I remember it well, for he asked the name, and I told it him. It’s not that I care a straw whether the old place was bought by Tom, Dick, or Harry, but I can’t stand his having concealed the fact from me after so much, I may say, confidential conversation about it and our affairs generally. When I meet him again the young coxcomb shall have a piece of my mind.”
McLeod was, as we have said, an angry man, and, as the intelligent reader well knows, angry men are apt to blind themselves and to become outrageously unreasonable. He was wrong in supposing that he did not care a straw who should have bought the old place. Without, perhaps, admitting it to himself, he had entertained a hope that the home which was intimately associated with his wife, and in which some of the happiest years of his life had been spent, would remain unsold until he should manage to scrape together money enough to repurchase it. If it had been sold to the proverbial Tom, or Dick, or Harry, he would have been bitterly disappointed; the fact that it was sold to one who had, as he thought, deceived him while enjoying his hospitality, only served as a reason for his finding relief to disappointment in indignation. Flora, who had entertained similar hopes in regard to Loch Dhu, shared the disappointment, but not the indignation, for, although it did seem unaccountable that one so evidently candid and truthful as Redding should conceal the actual state of matters, she felt certain that there was some satisfactory explanation of the mystery, and in that state of mind she determined to remain until time should throw further light on the affair.
Neither she nor her father happened to remember that the truth had broken on Redding at the moment when the Indian entered the hut at Jenkins Creek with the news of the wreck, which created such a sudden excitement there that it banished thoughts of all other things from the minds of every one.
The elder McLeod was a man of very strong and sensitive feelings, so that, although possessed of an amiable and kindly disposition, he found it exceedingly difficult to forget injuries, especially when these were unprovoked. His native generosity might have prompted him perhaps to find some excuse for the fur-trader’s apparent want of candour, or to believe that there might be some explanation of it, but, as it was, he flung into the other scale not only the supposed injury inflicted by Redding, but all his weighty disappointments at the loss of his old home, and of course generosity kicked the beam!
Acting on these feelings, he turned the bow of the boat inshore without uttering a word, and when her keel grated on the gravelly beach, he looked somewhat sternly at Le Rue, and said:—
“You may jump ashore, and go back to your fort.”
“Monsieur?” exclaimed Le Rue, aghast with surprise.
“Jump ashore,” repeated McLeod, with a steady, quiet look of impassibility. “Go, tell your master that I do not require further assistance from him.”
The Canadian felt that McLeod’s look and tone admitted of neither question nor delay. His surprise therefore gave way to a burst of indignation. He leaped ashore with a degree of energy that sent the little boat violently off the beach, and the shingles spurted from his heels as he strode into the forest, renewing his vows of vengeance against his late friends and old enemies, “de Macklodds!”
Chapter Nine
Surmisings, Disagreements, Vexations, and Botherations
Great was the amazement and perplexity of Reginald Redding when his faithful cook returned to the Cliff Fort bearing the elder McLeod’s message. At first he jumped to the conclusion that McLeod had observed his affection for Flora, and meant thus to give him a broad hint that his addresses were not agreeable. Being, like McLeod, an angry man, he too became somewhat blind. All his pride and indignation were aroused. The more he brooded over the subject, however, the more he came to see that this could not be the cause of McLeod’s behaviour. He was terribly perplexed, and, finally, after several days, he determined to go down to the scene of the wreck and demand an explanation.
“It is the proper course to follow,” he muttered to himself, one day after breakfast, while brooding alone over the remnants of the meal, “for it would be unjust to allow myself to lie under a false imputation, and it would be equally unjust to allow the McLeods to remain under a false impression. Perhaps some enemy may have put them against me. Anyhow, I shall go down and try to clear the matter up. If I succeed—well. If not—”
His thoughts were diverted at this point by the entrance of Bob Smart. That energetic individual had been to visit the frost-bitten seamen, for whose comfort an old out-house had been made weather-tight, and fitted up as a rough-and-ready hospital.
“They’re all getting on famously,” said Bob, rubbing his hands, as he sat down and pulled out the little black pipe to which he was so much addicted. “Green’s left little toe looks beautiful this morning, quite red and healthy, and, I think, won’t require amputation, which is well, for it is doubly a left little toe since you cut off the right one yesterday. His big toe seems to my amateur eye in a thoroughly convalescent state, but his left middle finger obviously requires removal. You’ll do it to-day, I suppose?”
“Yes, I meant to do it yesterday,” answered Redding, with much gravity, “but gave it another chance. How’s Brixton?”
“Oh, he’s all right. He groans enough to make one believe he’s the worst of ’em all, but his hurts are mostly skin deep, and will heal no doubt in course of time. His nose, certainly, looks blobby enough, like an over-ripe plum, and I rather think it’s that which makes him growl so horribly; but after all, it won’t be shortened more than quarter of an inch, which will be rather an advantage, for it was originally too long. Then as to Harper and Jennings, they are quite cheery and their appetites increasing, which is the best of signs, though, I fear, poor fellows, that the first will lose a hand and the other a foot. The dressings you put on yesterday seem to have relieved them much. I wish I could say the same for the poor nigger. His foot is sure to go. It’s in such a state that I believe the cleverest surgeon alive couldn’t save it, and even if he could what’s left of it would be of no use. You know I have a mechanical turn and could make him a splendid wooden leg if you will pluck up courage to cut it off.”
“No,” said Redding decidedly; “it’s all very well to lop off a finger or a toe with a razor, but I don’t think it’s allowable for an amateur to attempt a foot except under circumstances of extreme urgency.”
“Well, it don’t much matter,” continued Bob Smart, drawing vigorously at the black pipe, “for we’ll have an opportunity of sending them up to Quebec in a week or so, and in the meantime the poor fellows are very jolly considering their circumstances. That man Ned Wright keeps them all in good humour. Although, as you know, he has suffered severely in hands and feet, he feels himself well enough to limp about the room and act the part, as he says, of ‘stooard and cook to the ship’s company.’ He insisted on beginning last night just after you left, and I found him hard at it this morning when I went to see them. He must have been the life of the ship before she went ashore, for he goes about continually trolling out some verses of his own composing, though he has got no more idea of tune in him than the main-top-mast back-stay, to which, or something of the same kind, he makes very frequent reference. Here is a verse of his latest composition:—”
O-o-o-o-h! it’s once I froze the end of my nose,
On the coast of Labrador, sir,
An’ I lost my smell, an’ my taste as well,
An’ my pipe, which made me roar, sir;
But the traders come, an’ think wot they done!
They poked an’ pinched an’ skewered me;
They cut an’ snipped, an’ they carved an’ ripped,
An’ they clothed an’ fed an’ cured me.
Chorus.—Hooroo! it’s true
An’ a sailor’s life for me.
“Not bad, eh?” said Bob.
“Might be worse,” answered Redding, with the air of one whose mind is preoccupied.
“I’ve often wondered,” continued Bob Smart, in a moralising tone, and looking intently at the wreaths of smoke that curled from his lips as if for inspiration, “I’ve often wondered how it is that sailors—especially British sailors—appear to possess such an enormous fund of superabundant rollicking humour, insomuch that they will jest and sing sometimes in the midst of troubles and dangers that would take the spirit out of ordinary men such as you and me.”
“Bob Smart,” said Redding earnestly.
“Yes,” said Bob.
“D’you know it strikes me that I ought to go down to the wreck to see how the McLeods are getting on.”
“O ah! well, to change the subject, d’you know Mr Redding, that same idea struck me some days ago, for Jonas Bellew has left them to look after his own affairs, and the Indians were to go north on the 13th, so the McLeods must have been living for some time on salt provisions, unless they have used their guns with better success than has been reported of them. If you remember, I have mentioned it to you more than once, but you seemed to avoid the subject.”
“Well, perhaps I did, and perhaps I had my reasons for it. However, I am going down now, immediately after dressing the poor fellows’ sores. Will you therefore be good enough to get the small boat ready, with some fresh meat, and tell Le Rue and Michel to be prepared to start in an hour or so.”
The day after the above conversation McLeod senior walked down to the wreck accompanied by Flora. Kenneth had been left in charge of the invalid, whose system had received such a shock that his recovery was extremely slow, and it had been deemed advisable not only to avoid, but to forbid all reference to the wreck. Indeed Roderick himself seemed to have no desire to speak about it, and although he had roused himself on the arrival of his relations, he had hitherto lain in such a weak semi-lethargic state that it was feared his head must have received severer injury than was at first supposed. On the morning of the day in question an Indian had arrived with a letter from Mr Gambart of Partridge Bay, which had not tended to soothe the luckless father.
“It seems very unfortunate,” said Flora, in a sympathetic tone.
“Seems unfortunate?” exclaimed McLeod, with some asperity, “it is unfortunate. Why, what could be more so? Just think of it, Flo! Here am I without a penny of ready cash in the world, and although Gambart knows this as well as I do myself, he writes me, first, that he has sold Loch Dhu to that fellow Redding, and now that he has bought Barker’s Mill for me without my sanction!”
“But you gave him leave to sell Loch Dhu,” suggested Flora.
“Oh, yes, yes, of course, and I told him to let it go at a low sum, for I needed cash very much at the beginning of this venture at Jenkins Creek. But I find that our expenses are so small that I could afford to hold on for some time on the funds I have. To be sure Gambart could not know that, but—but—why did the fellow go and buy that mill for me? It’s being a great bargain and a splendid property, just now are no excuse, for he knew my poverty, and also knew that I shall feel bound in honour to take it off his hands when I manage to scrape the sum together, because of course it was done in a friendly way to oblige me. No doubt he will say that there’s no hurry about repayment, and that he won’t take interest, and so forth, but he had no business to buy it at all!”
Flora made no reply to this, for she saw that her father was waxing wroth under his misfortunes.
Her silence tended rather to increase his wrath, for he was dissatisfied with himself more than with others, and would have been glad even of contradiction in order that he might relieve his feelings by disputation.
While this state of mind was strong upon him they reached a turn in the path that brought the wreck into view and revealed the fact that a boat lay on the beach, from which three men had just landed. Two of these remained by the boat, while the third advanced towards the woods.
Flora’s hand tightened on her father’s arm.
“Surely that is Mr Redding,” she said.
The frown which had clouded McLeod’s brow instantly deepened. “Go,” he said, “walk slowly back towards the hut. I will overtake you in a few minutes.”
Flora hesitated. “Won’t you let me stay, father?”
“No, my dear, I wish to talk privately with Redding—go.”
He patted her kindly on the head, and she left him with evident reluctance.
“Good-morning, Mr McLeod,” said Redding, as he approached.
“Good-morning,” replied the other stiffly, without extending his hand.
Redding flushed, but restrained himself, and continued in a calm matter-of-course tone:
“Thinking it probable that you might be in want of fresh provisions, I have run down with a small supply, which is at your service.”
“Thank you,” replied McLeod, still stiffly, “I am not quite destitute of fresh provisions, and happen to have a good supply of ammunition; besides, if I were starving I would not accept aid from one who has deceived me.”
“Deceived you!” exclaimed Redding, waxing indignant more at McLeod’s tone and manner than his words, “wherein have I deceived you?”
As he put the question his mind leaped to the line of demarcation between the properties at Jenkins Creek, and he racked his brains hastily to discover what he could have said or done at their first interview that could have been misunderstood. McLeod was one of those men in whom anger is easily increased by the exhibition of anger in others. It was therefore in a still more offensive tone that he said:—
“Sir, you deceived me by violating the laws of hospitality—by keeping silence when candour required you to speak.”
“Sir,” exclaimed Redding, still thinking of the line of demarcation, and losing his temper altogether, “in all that has passed between us I have invariably spoken with candour, and if at any time I have kept silence I consider that in so doing I have done you a favour.”
When two fiery men clash, an explosion is the natural result.
“Very well, sir,” said McLeod, with a look of withering contempt, “as I don’t accept your favours I don’t thank you for them, so you may take yourself off as soon as you please.”
He waited for no reply but turned abruptly on his heel and walked away, while Redding, with a face of scarlet, strode down the beach and leaped into his boat.
Not a word did he utter to his astonished men beyond ordering them to pull back to the fort. Apparently the rate of rowing was not fast enough to please him, for in a few minutes he ordered Michel to take the helm, and himself seized the oar, which he plied with such vigour that, as Michel afterwards averred, the rudder had to be kept nearly hard a-port all the time to prevent the boat being pulled round even though Le Rue was working like a steam engine and blowing like a grampus!
Towards the afternoon this exercise, coupled with reflection, cooled Reginald Redding’s spirit while it warmed his body, and at last he deemed it right to pause for the purpose of letting the men have a pipe and a mouthful of food. While they were busy refreshing themselves he leant over the stern, gazed down into the water, and brooded over his supposed wrongs.
Whether it was the clearness of the still water, through which he could see the little fish and crabs floating and crawling placidly among the pebbles at the bottom, or the soothing influence of the quiet afternoon, or the sedative effect of a reflective condition of mind, we know not, but it is certain that before the pipes were smoked out he fur-trader observed that his reflected visage wore a very unpleasant-looking frown, insomuch that a slight smile curled his lips. The contrast between the frowning brows and the smiling lips appeared so absurd that, to prevent the impropriety of becoming too suddenly good-humoured, he turned his eyes towards his men and encountered the perplexed gaze of Le Rue, as that worthy sat with his elbows on his knees in the calm enjoyment of his pipe.
Redding at once resumed his frown.
“François,” said he, “did you have much conversation with McLeod before he dismissed you on the way down?”
“Oui, Monsieur, we had ver moche conversatione.”
“Can you remember what it was about?”
“Oh oui. ’Bout a’most all tings. I tell him de mos’ part of my histoire,—me fadder, me moder, broder, sister, an’ all dat, ’bout vich he seem not to care von buttin. Den ve convarsatione ’bout de fur-trade, an’ de—”
“Well well,” interrupted Redding, “but what was the last thing, just before he sent you off?”
“Ah let me zee. Oui—it was ’bout you’self. I tell him ’bout de property—de Lock Doo vat you was—”
“Le Rue,” exclaimed Redding, suddenly and very angrily, “you’re a consummate ass!”
“Vraiment,” said Le Rue, with a slight shrug of his shoulders, “I am so for remaining in de service of von goose!”
There was such good-humoured impudence in the man’s face as he said this that Redding laughed in spite of himself.
“Well,” he said, “your readiness to talk has at all events caused bad feeling between me and the McLeods. However, it don’t matter. Ship your oars again and give way with a will.”
The men obeyed, and as Redding sat buried in meditation at the helm he became convinced that McLeod’s anger had been aroused by his silence in regard to the purchase of Loch Dhu, for he himself had almost forgotten that the sudden entrance of the Indian had checked the words which were at the moment on his lips. When he thought of this, and of Flora, he resolved to pull back and explain matters, but when he thought of McLeod’s tone and manner he determined to proceed to the fort. Then, when he thought of Roderick’s precarious state, his mind again wavered, but, other thoughts and plans suggesting themselves, he finally decided on returning home.
That night he encamped in the woods and continued to brood over the camp-fire long after his men were asleep. Next day he reached the Cliff Fort, when, after seeing to the welfare of the wrecked men, he informed Bob Smart that he meant to absent himself for about a week, and to leave him, Bob, in charge. He also gave orders that no one should quit the post, or furnish any assistance to the McLeods.
“But, sir,” said Bob Smart, in surprise, “they will be sure to starve.”
“No fear of them,” replied Redding, “Kenneth is young and active, and they have plenty of ammunition.”
“If report be true,” returned Bob, “neither Kenneth nor any of his kin can hit a sheep at twenty yards off. Bellew says they are as blind as bats with the gun.”
“No matter. They have a boat, and one of them can row back to Jenkins Creek for fresh meat. Anyway, do as I bid you, and be very careful of the wrecked men.”
Smart, although fond of discussion, knew how to obey. He therefore said no more but bade Redding good-night and retired to his humble couch, which, he was wont to say, was a fine example of compensation, inasmuch as the fact of its being three inches too narrow was counterbalanced by its being six inches too long.
