CHAPTER IV
HOME AND JULIE BRETON
That night Marcel camped at the river's mouth and watched the graywaters of the great Bay drown the sinking sun. Somewhere, far down thebold East Coast the Great Whale emptied into the salt "Big Water" of theCrees. He remembered having heard the old men at the post say that theBig Salmon lay four "sleeps" of fair weather to the north--four days ofhard paddling, as the Company canoes travel, if the sea was flat and thewind light. But if he were wind-bound, as was likely heading south inthe spring, it might take weeks. He had a hundred pounds of cured fishand could wait out the wind, but the thought of Julie, who by this timemust have learned from his partners of his mad journey, made Jeananxious to reach the post. He preferred to be welcomed living thanmourned as dead. He wondered how deeply she would feel it--his death.Ah, if she only cared for him as he loved her! Well, she should love himin time, when he had become a _voyageur_ of the Company, with a house atthe post, he told himself, as he patted his shy puppy before turninginto his blankets.
The second day out he was driven ashore under gray cliffs by asouth-wester and spent the succeeding three days in overcoming theshyness of the hulking puppy, who, in the gentleness of the new master,found swift solace for the loss of her shaggy kinsmen of the Husky camp.Already she had learned that the human hand could caress as well aswield a stick, and for the first time in her short existence, wasinitiated into the mystery and delight of having her ears rubbed andback scratched by this master who did not kick her out of the way whenshe sprawled in his path. And because of her beauty, and in memory ofFleur Marcel, the mother he had loved, he named her Fleur.
When the sea flattened out after the blow, Marcel launched his canoe,and, with his dog in the bow, continued south. Not a wheeling gull,flock of whistling yellow-legs, or whiskered face of inquisitive seal,thrust from the water only as quickly to disappear, escaped the noticeof the eager puppy. Passing low islands where teal and pin-tail rose inclouds at his approach, driving Fleur into a frenzy of excitement, atlast he turned in behind a long island paralleling the coast.
For two days Jean travelled down the strait in the lee of this islandand knew when he passed out into open water and saw in the distance thefamiliar coast of the Whale River mouth, that he had travelled throughthe mystic Manitounuk, the Esquimos' Strait of the Spirit. The followingafternoon off Sable Point he entered the clear water of the Great Whaleand once again, after ten months' absence, saw on the bold shore in thedistance the roofs of Whale River.
There was a lump in the throat of Jean Marcel as he gazed at the distantfur-post. That little settlement, with its log trade-house and church ofthe Oblat Fathers, the last outpost of the Great Company on the bleakEast Coast, which for two centuries had defied the grim north, stood forall he held most dear--was home. There, in the church burial groundenclosed by a slab fence, three spruce crosses marked the graves of hisfather, mother and brother. There in the Mission House, built by Creeconverts, lived Julie Breton.
As the young flood swept him up-stream he wondered if already he hadbeen counted as lost by his friends at the post--for it was July;whether the thoughts of Julie Breton sometimes wandered north to the ladwho had disappeared into the Ungava hills on a mad quest; or if, withthe others, she had given him up as starved or drowned--numbered himwith that fated legion who had gone out into the wide north never toreturn.
Nearing the post, the canoe began to pass the floats of gill-nets setfor whitefish and salmon. He could now see the tepees of the WhaleRiver Crees, dotting the high shores, and below, along the beach, thesquat skin lodges of the Huskies, with their fish scaffolds and umiaks.The spring trade was on.
Beaching his canoe at the Company landing, where he was welcomed as onereturned from the dead by two post Crees, Marcel, leading his dog by arawhide thong, sought the Mission House.
At his knock the door was opened by a girl with dusky eyes and masses ofblack hair, who stared in amazement at the _voyageur_.
"Julie!" he cried.
Then she found her voice, while the blood flushed her olive skin.
"Jean Marcel! _vous etes revenu!_ You have come back!" exclaimed thegirl, continuing the conversation in French.
"Oh, Jean! We had great fear you might not return." He was holding bothher hands but, embarrassed, she did not meet his eager eyes seeking toread her thoughts.
"Come in, _M'sieu le voyageur_!" and she led him gayly into the Mission."Henri, Pere Henri!" she called. "Jean Marcel has returned from thedead!"
"Jean, my son!" replied a deep voice, and Pere Breton was vigorouslyembracing the man he had thought never to see again.
"Father, your greeting is somewhat warmer than that of Julie," laughedthe happy youth, as the bearded priest surveyed him at arm's length.
"Ah, she has spoken much of you, Jean, this spring. None the worse forthe long voyage, my son?" he continued. "You will be the talk of WhaleRiver; the Crees said you could not get through. And you got your dogs?We have only curs here, except those of the Huskies, and they are verydear."
"The Huskies would not sell their dogs, Father. They were bringing themto Whale River."
Then Marcel sketched briefly to his wondering friends the history of hiswanderings and his meeting with the Huskies on the Big Salmon.
As he finished the tale of his escape from the camp with his puppy, andlater from the ambush, Julie Breton's dark eyes were wet with tears.
"Oh, Jean Marcel, why did you take such risks? You might havestarved--they might have killed you!"
His eyes lighted with tenderness as they met the girl's questioningface.
"I had to have dogs, Julie. I must save my credit with the Company. Itwas the only way."
"Let me see your puppy! Where is she?" demanded the girl.
Jean led his friends outside the Mission, where he had fastened hisdog. The wild puppy shrank from the strangers, the hair bristling on herneck, as Julie impulsively thrust a hand toward the dog's handsome head.
"Oh, but she is cross!" she exclaimed. "What is her name?"
"Fleur; it was my mother's."
"Too nice a name for such an impolite dog!"
Jean stroked Fleur's head as she crouched against his legs muttering herdislike of strangers. At his caress, her warm tongue sought his hand.
"There," he said proudly, his white teeth flashing in a grin at Julie,"you see here is one who loves Jean Marcel."
At the invitation of Pere Breton, the _voyageur_ shut his dog in theMission stockade, where she would be free from attack by the postHuskies and safe from some covetous Cree, and gladly took possession ofan empty room in the building.
The Whelps of the Wolf Page 5