by John Buchan
‘Good man!’ said Galliard, who had taken Leithen’s glass and was examining the kill.
‘A bull – poorish head, but that doesn’t matter – heavy carcase. Every inch of 350 yards, and a very prettily placed shot.’
‘At home,’ said Leithen, ‘I would have guessed 120. What miraculous air!’
He was ashamed of the childish delight which he felt. He had proved that life was not dead in him by bringing off a shot of which he would have been proud in his twenties.
The caribou was cut up and loaded on one of the sledges, maddening the dogs with the smell of fresh meat. For the rest of the afternoon daylight Leithen moved happily in step with Galliard. The road was easy, the extreme cold was abating, he felt a glow of satisfaction which he had not known for many a day. He was primitive man again who had killed his dinner. Also there was a new vigour in his limbs – not merely the absence of discomfort and fatigue, but something positive, a plus quantity of well-being.
When they made camp he was given the job of attending to the dogs, whose feet were suffering. The malamutes, since their toes were close together, were all right, but with the huskies the snow had balled and frozen hard, and in biting their paws to release the congested toes they had broken the skin and left raw flesh. Johnny provided an antiseptic ointment which tasted evilly and so would not be licked off. The beasts were wonderfully tractable, as if they knew that the treatment was for their good. Leithen had always been handy with dogs, and he found a great pleasure in looking into their furry, wrinkled faces and sniffing their familiar smell. Here was something which belonged most intimately to the North and yet had been adapted to the homely needs of man.
That night he dined with relish off caribou steaks and turned early to bed. But he did not fall asleep at once. There was a pleasant ferment in his brain, for he was for the first time envisaging what life would be if he were restored to it. He allowed his thoughts to run forward and plan.
It was of his friends that he thought chiefly, of his friends and of one or two places linked with them. Their long absence from his memory had clarified his view of them, and against the large background of acquaintances a few stood out who, he realised, were his innermost and abiding comrades. None of his colleagues at the Bar were among them, and none of his fellow-politicians. With them he had worked happily, but they had remained on the outer rim of his life. The real intimates were few, and the bond had always been something linked with sport and country life. Charles Lamancha and John Palliser-Yeates had been at school and college with him, and they had been together on many hillsides and by many waters. Archie Roylance, much younger, had irrupted into the group by virtue of an identity of tastes and his own compelling charm. Sandy Clanroyden had been the central star, radiating heat and light, a wandering star who for long seasons disappeared from the firmament. And there was Dick Hannay, half Nestor, half Odysseus, deep in Oxfordshire mud, but with a surprising talent for extricating himself and adventuring in the ends of the earth.
As he thought of them he felt a glow of affection warm his being. He pictured the places to which they specially belonged: Lamancha on the long slopes of Cheviot; Archie Roylance on the wind-blown thymy moors of the west; Sandy in his Border fortress; and Dick Hannay by the clear streams and gentle pastures of Cotswold. He pictured his meeting with them – restored from the grave. They had never been told about his illness, but they must have guessed. Sandy at least, after that last dinner in London. They must have been talking about him, lamenting his absence, making futile inquiries … He would suddenly appear among them, a little thinner and older perhaps, but the same man, and would be welcomed back to that great companionship.
How would he spend his days? He had finished with his professions, both law and politics. The State must now get on without him. He would be much at Borrowby – thank Heaven he had not sold it! He would go back to his Down Street rooms, for though he had surrendered the lease he would find a way of renewing it. He had done with travel; his last years would be spent at home among his friends. Somebody had once told him that a man who recovered from tuberculosis was pretty well exempt from other maladies. He might live to an old age, a careful, moderate old age filled with mild pleasures and innocent interests … On the pillow of such thoughts he fell asleep.
11
THE snow began just as they reached Lone Tree Lake. At first it came gently, making the air a dazzle of flakes, but not obscuring the near view. At the lake they retrieved the rest of their cached supplies, and tramped down its frozen surface until they reached its outlet, a feeder of the Big Hare, now under ten feet of ice and snow. Here the snow’s softness made the going difficult, for the northern snow-shoes offered too narrow a surface. The air had become almost mild, and that night, when a rock shelf gave them a comparatively dry bivouac, Leithen deliberately laid his blankets well away from the fire.
Next day they halted to hunt, looking for fresh meat to take to the Hares’ camp. Johnny and Lew found a small stamping-ground of moose, and since in the snow the big animals were at a disadvantage, they had no difficulty in getting two young bulls. Leithen helped to drag in the meat and found that the change in the weather had not weakened his new vigour. His mind was in a happy maze, planning aimlessly and making pictures which he did not try to complete.
Lew watched him with satisfaction.
‘I’ve got to learn you things,’ he said. ‘You haven’t got the tricks, and you’re wasting your strength, but’ – and he repeated his old phrase – ‘you’re going to be the huskiest of the lot of us. And I seen you shoot!’
They reached the Hares’ camp late on an afternoon, when the snow had so thickened that it had the look of a coarse-textured cloth ceaselessly dropped from the skies. Huts, tents, the little church were for the moment buried under the pall. Lew chose a camping site about a quarter of a mile distant, for it was important to avoid too close a contact at first with the stricken settlement.
Johnny and the Indians went off to prospect. Half an hour later Johnny returned with startled eyes.
‘I got news,’ he stammered. ‘The Father toldme–seems there was a dog-team got down to the Fort, and come back. There’s fightin’ in Europe – been goin’ on for months. Seems it’s them darned Germans again. And Britain’s in it. Likewise Canada.’
12
THE taller Indian spoke from behind Johnny.
‘My father is dead,’ he said, and slipped back into the dusk.
‘Yes,’ said Johnny, ‘there’s been a lot of deaths among them Hares. Their camp’s like a field hospital. Talkin’ of field hospitals, what about this war?’
‘We’ll sleep on that,’ Leithen answered.
Lew did not open his mouth, nor Galliard. Supper was prepared and eaten in silence, and each man by tacit consent went immediately to his blankets. Leithen, before turning in, looked at the skies. The snowfall was thinning, and the air was sharpening again. There was an open patch in the west and a faint irradiation of moonshine. Tomorrow would be very cold.
His bodily well-being continued. The journey down from the mountains had left its mark, for his face was scarred by patches of frost-bite, his lips were inflamed, the snow-shoes had made the calves of his legs ache like a bad tooth, and under his moccasins his feet were blistered. Nevertheless he felt that vigour had come back to him. It reminded him of his mountaineering days, when he would return to London with blistered cheeks and aching shoulder muscles and bleared eyes, and yet know that he was far fitter than the smoothly sunburnt creature that emerged from a holiday at home.
But though his body craved for it his mind would not permit of sleep. He had been living with life, and now suddenly death seemed to have closed down on the world. The tall Indian’s cry rang in his ears like a knell.
What had become of the bright pictures he had been painting?
The world was at war again and somewhere in Europe men were grappling with death. The horrors of campaigning had never been much in his mind, for as a soldier he had b
een too busy to brood over the macabre. But now a flood of dimly remembered terrors seemed to flow in upon him – men shot in the stomach and writhing in no-man’s-land; scarecrows that once were human crucified on the barbed wire and bleached by wind and sun; the shambles of a casualty clearing station after a battle.
His thoughts had been dwelling on his reunion with friends. Those friends would all be scattered. Sandy Clanroyden would be off on some wild venture. Archie Roylance would be flying, game leg and all. Hannay, Palliser-Yeates, Lamancha, they would all be serving somehow and somewhere. He would be out of it, of course. A guarded flame, a semi-invalid, with nothing to do but to ‘make’ his soul … As he fell asleep he was ashamed of his childishness. He had promised himself a treat which was not going to come off, and he was whining about it.
He woke with a faint far-off tinkle in his ears. He had been dreaming of war and would not have been surprised if he had heard a bugle call. He puzzled over the sound until he hit on the explanation. Father Duplessis in his little church was ringing the morning Angelus.
That tinny bell had an explosive effect on Leithen’s mind. This was a place of death, the whole world was full of death – and yet here was one man who stood stubbornly for life. He rang the bell which should have started his flock on their day’s work. Sunk in weakness and despair they would remain torpid, but he had sounded the challenge. Here was one man at any rate who was the champion of life against death.
13
IT was a silent little band that broke camp and set out in the late winter dawn. Johnny’s face was sullen with some dismal preoccupation, and Lew’s eyes had the wildness of the Sick Heart River, while Galliard’s seemed to have once again the fear which had clouded them when he was recovering from his exhaustion.
To his surprise Leithen found that this did not depress him. The bell still tinkled in his ears. The world was at war again. It might be the twilight of the gods, the end of all things. The globe might swim in blood. Death might resume his ancient reign. But, by Heaven, he would strike his blow for life, even a pitiful flicker of it.
The valley opened before them. Frost had stiffened the snow to marble, and they were compelled to take off their snow-shoes, which gave them no foot-hold. The sky was a profound blue, and the amphitheatre of peaks stood out against it in a dazzling purity, matched below by the unbroken white sheet of the lake. The snow was deep, for the near woods were so muffled as to have lost all clean contours, and when they came to the flat where the camp lay the wretched huts had no outlines. They might have been mounds to mark where the dead lay in some hyperborean graveyard. Only the little church on the higher ground looked like the work of men’s hands. From the adjoining presbytery rose a thin wisp of smoke, but elsewhere there was no sign of humanity.
Lew spoke at last.
‘God! The Hares have gone to earth like chipmunks! Or maybe they’re all dead.’
‘Not all,’ said one of the Indians, ‘but they are dying.’
They soon had evidence. They passed a small grove of spruce and poplar, and in nearly every tree there was a thing like a big nest, something lashed to snowy boughs. Lew nodded towards them. ‘That’s their burying-ground. It’s new since we was here before.’ Leithen thought freakishly of Villon and ‘King Louis’s orchard close.’ There were funny little humps, too, on the flat, with coverings of birch and spruce branches peeping from under the snow.
‘Them’s graves,’ said Johnny. ‘The big ones go up in the trees, the smaller ones are under them humps, and them of no account, like babies and old folk, just get chucked out in the drifts. There’s been a power o’ dyin’ here.’
Lew turned to Leithen for orders.
‘Which comes first?’ he asked, ‘Zacharias or the priest?’
‘We will go to the presbytery,’ was the answer.
14
THERE was at first no sign of life in the irregular street of huts that made the ascent to the presbytery. The roofs of some of them were sagging with the weight of snow, and one or two had collapsed. But there were people in them, for, now that they were seen at closer quarters, wraiths of smoke came from the vents, which proved that there were fires within, though very meagre ones. Once a door opened and a woman looked out; she at once drew back with a scared look like an animal’s; a whimper of a child seemed to come from indoors.
Then suddenly there rose a wild clamour from starving dogs picketed in the snow. Their own dogs answered it and the valley resounded with the din. After the deathly quiet the noise seemed a horrid impiety. There was nothing in it of friendly barking; it was like the howling of a starving wolf pack lost and forgotten at the world’s end.
The sound brought Father Duplessis to the presbytery door. He was about Leithen’s own age, but now he looked ten years older than at Fort Bannerman. Always lean, he was now emaciated, and his pallor had become almost cadaverous. He peered and blinked at the newcomers, and then his face lit up as he came forward with outstretched hands.
‘God be praised!’ he cried. ‘It is my English comrade-in-arms.’
‘Get hold of the chief,’ Leithen told Johnny. ‘Take the Indians with you and make a plan for distributing the meat. Then bring Zacharias up here.’
He and Galliard and Lew followed the priest into the presbytery. In Father Wentzel’s time the place had smelt stuffy, like a furniture store. Now it reeked of ether and carbolic, and in a corner stood a trestle table covered with a coarse linen cloth. He remembered that Father Duplessis was something of a doctor.
He was also most clearly a soldier, a soldier tired out by a long and weary campaign. There was nothing about him to tell of the priest except the chain which showed at his neck and which held a cross tucked under his shirt. He wore kamiks and a dicky of caribou skin and a parka edged with wolverine fur, and he needed all his clothing, for the presbytery was perishing cold. He might have been a trapper or a prospector but for his carriage, his squared shoulders and erect head, which showed the discipline of St Cyr. His silky brown beard was carefully combed and trimmed. A fur skull-cap covered the head where the hair had been cut to the bone. He had the long, high-bridged nose of Picardy gentlefolk, and a fine forehead, round the edges of which the hair was greying. His blue eyes looked washed out and fatigued, but the straight lines of the brows gave an impression of power and reserve. The osseous structure of his face was as sharply defined as the features on a newly minted coin.
‘Thank Heaven you have come,’ he said. ‘This campaign is too hard for one man. And perhaps I am not the man. In this task I am only a subaltern and I need a commanding officer.’
He looked first at Galliard and then at Leithen, and his eyes remained on the latter.
‘We are fighting a pestilence,’ he went on, ‘but a pestilence of the soul.’
‘One moment,’ Leithen broke in. ‘What about this war in Europe?’
‘There is war,’ said the priest gravely. ‘The news came from the Fort when I sent a dog-team for supplies. But I know no more than that the nations are once again at each other’s throats. Germany with certain allies against your country and mine. I do not think of it – Europe is very far away from my thoughts.’
‘Supplies? What did you get?’
‘Not much. Some meal and flour, of which a balance remains. But that is not the diet for the poor folk here. Also a little coffee for myself. See, I will make you a cup.’
He bustled for a minute or two at the stove, and the pleasant odour of coffee cut sharply into the frowst of the room.
‘A pestilence of the mind?’ Leithen asked. ‘You mean—?’
‘In myself – and in you – it would be called accidie, a deadly sin. But not, I think, with this people. They are removed but a little way from the beasts that perish, and with them it is an animal sickness.’
‘They die of it?’
‘But assuredly. Some have T.B. and their sickness of the mind speeds up that disease. Some are ageing and it makes them senile, so that they perish from old age. With some i
t unhinges the wits so that the brain softens. Up to now it is principally the men who suffer, for the women will still fight on, having urgent duties. But soon it will mean the children also, and the women will follow. Before the geese return in spring, I fear, I greatly fear, that my poor people will be no more in the land.’
‘What are you doing about it?’
Father Duplessis shrugged his shoulders and spread out his hands.
‘There is little I can do. I perform the offices of the Church, and I strive to make them worship with me. I preach to them the way of salvation. But I cannot lift them out of the mire. What is needed is men – a man – who will force their life again into a discipline, so that they will not slip away into death. Someone who will give them hope.’
‘Have you no helpers?’
‘There is the chief Zacharias, who has a stout heart. But he is old and crippled. One or two young men, perhaps, but I fear they are going the way of the rest.’
15
LEITHEN had asked questions automatically and had scarcely listened to the replies, for in that dim, stuffy, frigid presbytery, where the only light came through the cracks in the door and a dirty window in the roof, he was conscious of something in the nature of a revelation. His mind had a bitter clarity, and his eyes seemed to regard, as from a high place, the kingdoms of the world and men’s souls.
His will was rising to the same heights. At last, at long last, his own course was becoming crystal clear.
Memories of the war in which he had fought raced before him like a cinema show, all in order and all pointing the same truth. It had been waste, futile waste, and death, illimitable, futile death. Now the same devilment was unloosed again. He saw Europe as a carnage pit – shattered towns, desecrated homes, devastated cornlands, roads blocked with the instruments of war – the meadows of France and of Germany, and of his own kind England. Once again the free peoples were grappling with the slave peoples. The former would win, but how many free men would die before victory, and how many of the unhappy slaves!