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THE TRAIL OF THE SWORD - VOLUME 1.
THE TRAIL OF THE SWORD - VOLUME 1. GILBERT PARKER CONTENTS:
EPOCH THE FIRST
I. AN ENVOY EXTRAORDINARY
II. THE THREAT OF A RENEGADE
III. THE FACE AT THE WINDOW
IV. THE UPLIFTING OF THE SWORDS
V. THE FRUITS OF THE LAW
VI. THE KIDNAPPING
EPOCH THE SECOND
VII. FRIENDS IN COUNCIL
VIII. AS SEEN THROUGH A GLASS DARKLY
IX. TO THE PORCH OF THE WORLD
X. QUI VIVE!
XI. WITH THE STRANGE PEOPLE
XII. OUT OF THE NET
EPOCH THE THIRD
XIII. "AS WATER UNTO WINE"
XIV. IN WHICH THE HUNTERS ARE OUT
XV. IN THE MATTER OF BUCKLAW
XVI. IN THE TREASURE HOUSE
XVII. THE GIFT OF A CAPTIVE
XVIII. MAIDEN NO MORE
EPOCH THE FOURTH
XIX. WHICH TELLS OF A BROTHER'S BLOOD CRYING FROM THE GROUND
XX. A TRAP IS SET
XXI. AN UNTOWARD MESSENGER
XXII. FROM TIGER'S CLAW TO LION'S MOUTH
XXIII. AT THE GATES OF MISFORTUNE
XXIV. IN WHICH THE SWORD IS SHEATHED
WHEREIN IS SET FORTH THE HISTORY OF JESSICA LEVERET AS ALSO THAT OF
PIERRE LE MOYNE OF IBERVILLE GEORGE GERING AND OTHER BOLD SPIRITS;
TOGETHER WITH CERTAIN MATTERS OF WAR AND THE DEEDS OF ONE EDWARD
BUCKLAW MUTINEER AND PIRATE
DEDICATION
My Dear Father:
Once many years ago in a kind of despair you were impelled to say
that I would "never be anything but a rascally lawyer." This it
may be sat upon your conscience for later you turned me gravely
towards Paley and the Thirty-nine Articles; and yet I know that in
your deepest soldier's heart you really pictured me how
unavailingly in scarlet and pipe-clay and with sabre like
yourself in youth and manhood. In all I disappointed you for I
never had a brief or a parish and it was another son of yours who
carried on your military hopes. But as some faint apology--I almost
dare hope some recompense for what must have seemed wilfulness I
send you now this story of a British soldier and his "dear maid"
which has for its background the old city of Quebec whose high
ramparts you walked first sixty years ago; and for setting the
beginning of those valiant fightings which as I have heard you
say "through God's providence and James Wolfe gave England her
best possession."
You will I feel sure quarrel with the fashion of my campaigns and
be troubled by my anachronisms; but I beg you to remember that long
ago you gave my young mind much distress when you told that
wonderful story how you one man "surrounded" a dozen enemies and
drove them prisoners to headquarters. "Surrounded" may have been
mere lack of precision but it serves my turn now as you see. You
once were--and I am precise here--a gallant swordsman: there are
legends yet of your doings with a crack Dublin bully. Well in the
last chapter of this tale you shall find a duel which will perhaps
recall those early days of this century when your blood was hot and
your hand ready. You would be distrustful of the details of this
scene did I not tell you that though the voice is Jacob's the hand
is another's. Swordsmen are not so many now in the army or out of
it that among them Mr. Walter Herrim Pollock's name will have
escaped you: so if you quarrel let it be with Esau; though having
good reason to be grateful to him that would cause me sorrow.
My dear father you are nearing the time-post of ninety years with
great health and cheerfulness; it is my hope you may top the arch of
your good and honourable life with a century key-stone.
Believe me sir
Your affectionate son
GILBERT PARKER.
15th September 1894
7 Park Place
St. James's S.W.
INTRODUCTION
THE TRAIL OF THE SWORD
This book like Mrs. Falchion was published in two volumes in January.
That was in 1894. It appeared first serially in the Illustrated London
News for which paper in effect it was written and it also appeared in
a series of newspapers in the United States during the year 1893. This
was a time when the historical novel was having its vogue. Mr. Stanley
Weyman Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and a good many others were following
the fashion and many of the plays at the time were also historical--
so-called. I did not write The Trail of the Sword because it was in
keeping with the spirit of the moment. Fashion has never in the least
influenced my writing or my literary purposes. Whatever may be thought
of my books they represent nothing except my own bent of mind my own
wilful expression of myself and the setting forth of that which seized
my imagination.
I wrote The Trail of the Sword because the early history of the
struggles between the French and English and the North American Continent
interested me deeply and fascinated my imagination. Also I had a most
intense desire to write of the Frenchman of the early days of the old
regime; and I have no idea why it was so because I have no French blood
in my veins nor any trace of French influence in my family. There is
however the Celtic strain the Irish blood immediate of the tang as it
were and no doubt a sympathy between the Celtic and the Gallic strain is
very near and has a tendency to become very dear. It has always been a
difficulty for me to do anything except show the more favourable side of
French character and life.
I am afraid that both in The Trail of the Sword which was the forerunner
of The Seats of the Mighty the well sunk in a sense out of which the
latter was drawn I gave my Frenchman the advantage over his English
rival. In The Trail of the Sword the gallant French adventurer's
chivalrous but somewhat merciless soul makes a better picture than does
his more phlegmatic but brave and honourable antagonist George Gering.
Also in The Seats of the Mighty Doltaire the half-villain overshadows
the good English hero from first to last; and yet despite the
unconscious partiality for the individual in both books English
character and the English as a race as a whole are dominant in the
narrative.
There is a long letter as a dedication to this book addressed to my
father; there is a note also which explains the spirit in which the book
was written and I have no desire to enlarge this introduction in the
presence of these prefaces to the first edition. But I may say that this
book was gravely important to me because it was to test all my capacity
for writing a novel with an historical background and as it were in
the custom of a bygone time. It was not really the first attempt at
handling a theme belonging to past generations because I had written for
Good Words about the year 1890 a short novel which I called The Chief
Factor a tale of the Hudson's Bay Company. It was the first novel or
tale of mine which secured copyright under the new American copyright act
of 1892.
There was a circumstance connected with this publication which is
interesting. When I arrived in New York I had only three days in which
to have the book printed in order to secure the copyright before Good
Words published the novel as its Christmas annual in its entirety. I
tried Messrs. Harper & Brothers and several other publishers by turn
but none of them could undertake to print the book in the time. At last
some kind friend told me to go to the Trow Directory Binding Company
which I did. They said they could not print the story in the time.
I begged them to reconsider. I told them how much was at stake for me.
I said that I would stay in the office and read the proofs as they came
from the press and would not move until it was finished. Refusal had
been written on the lips and the face of the manager at the beginning
but at last I prevailed. He brought the foreman down there and then.
Each of us elated by the conditions of the struggle determined to pull
the thing off. We printed that book of sixty-five thousand words or so
in forty-eight hours and it arrived in Washington three hours before the
time was up. I saved the copyright and I need hardly say that my
gratitude to the Trow Directory Binding Company was as great as their
delight in having done a really brilliant piece of work.
The day after the copyright was completed I happened to mention the
incident to Mr. Archibald Clavering Gunter author of Mr. Barnes of New
York who had a publishing house for his own books. He immediately made
me an offer for The Chief Factor. I hesitated because I had been
dealing with great firms like Harpers and to my youthful mind it
seemed rather beneath my dignity to have the imprint of so new a firm as
the Home Publishing Company on the title-page of my book. I asked the
advice of Mr. Walter H. Page then editor of The Forum now one of the
proprietors of The World's Work and Country Life and he instantly said:
"What difference does it make who publishes your book? It is the public
you want."
I did not hesitate any longer. The Chief Factor went to Mr. Archibald
Clavering Gunter and the Home Publishing Company and they made a very
large sale of it. I never cared for the book however; it seemed stilted
and amateurish though some of its descriptions and some of its dialogues
were I think as good as I can do; so eventually in the middle
nineties I asked Mr. Gunter to sell me back the rights in the book and
give me control of it. This he did. I thereupon withdrew it from
publication at once and am not including it in this subscription
edition. I think it better dead. But the writing of it taught me better
how to write The Trail of the Sword; though if I had to do this book
again I could construct it better.
I think it fresh and very vigorous and I think it does not lack
distinction while a real air of romance--of refined romance--pervades
it. But I know that Mr. W. E. Henley was right when after most
generously helping me to revise it with a true literary touch
wonderfully intimate and affectionate he said to me: "It is just not
quite big but the next one will get home."
He was right. The Trail of the Sword is "just not quite" though I think
it has charm; but it remained for The Seats of the Mighty to get home as
"W. E. H." the most exacting yet the most generous of critics said.
This book played a most important part in a development of my literary
work and the warm reception by the public--for in England it has been
through its tenth edition and in America through proportionate
thousands--was partly made possible by the very beautiful illustrations
which accompanied its publication in The Illustrated London News. The
artist was A. L. Forestier and never before or since has my work
received such distinguished pictorial exposition save perhaps in The
Weavers when Andre Castaigne did such triumphant work. It is a joy
still to look at the illustrations of The Trail of the Sword for
absolutely faithful to the time they add a note of verisimilitude to the
tale.
A NOTE
The actors in this little drama played their parts on the big stage of a
new continent two hundred years ago. Despots sat upon the thrones of
France and England and their representatives on the Hudson and the St.
Lawrence were despots too with greater opportunity and to better ends.
In Canada Frontenac quarreled with his Intendant and his Council set
a stern hand upon the Church when she crossed with his purposes cajoled
treated with and fought the Indians by turn and cherished a running
quarrel with the English Governor of New York. They were striving for
the friendship of the Iroquois on the one hand and for the trade of the
Great West on the other. The French under such men as La Salle had
pushed their trading posts westward to the great lakes and beyond the
Missouri and north to the shores of Hudson's Bay. They traded and
fought and revelled hot with the spirit of adventure the best of
pioneers and the worst of colonists. Tardily upon their trail came the
English and the Dutch slow to acquire but strong to hold; not so rash in
adventure nor so adroit in intrigue as fond of fighting but with less
of the gift of the woods and much more the faculty for government.
There was little interchange of friendliness and trade between the rival
colonists; and Frenchmen were as rare on Manhattan Island as Englishmen
on the heights of Quebec--except as prisoners.
G. P.
THE TRAIL OF THE SWORD
EPOCH THE FIRST
I. AN ENVOY EXTRAORDINARY
II. THE THREAT OF A RENEGADE
III. THE FACE AT THE WINDOW
IV. THE UPLIFTING OF THE SWORDS
V. THE FRUITS OF THE LAW
VI. THE KIDNAPPING
CHAPTER I
AN ENVOY EXTRAORDINARY
One summer afternoon a tall good-looking stripling stopped in the midst
of the town of New York and asked his way to the governor's house. He
attracted not a little attention and he created as much astonishment
when he came into the presence of the governor. He had been announced as
an envoy from Quebec. "Some new insolence of the County Frontenac!"
cried old Richard Nicholls bringing his fist down on the table. For a
few minutes he talked with his chamberfellow; then "Show the gentleman
in" he added. In the room without the envoy from Quebec had stood
flicking the dust from his leggings with a scarf. He was not more than
eighteen his face had scarcely an inkling of moustache but he had an
easy upright carriage with an air of self-possession the keenest of
grey eyes a strong pair of shoulders a look of daring about his rather
large mouth which lent him a manliness well warranting his present
service. He had been left alone and the first thing he had done was to
turn on his heel and examine the place swiftly. This he seemed to do
mechanically not as one forecasting danger not as a spy. In the curve
of his lips in an occasional droop of his eyelids there was a
suggestion of humour: less often a quality of the young than of the old.
For even in the late seventeenth century youth took itself seriously at
times.
Presently as he stood looking at the sunshine through the open door
a young girl came into the lane of light waved her hand with a little
laugh to some one in the distance and stepped inside. At first she did
not see him. Her glances were still cast back the way she had come.
The young man could not follow her glance nor was he anything curious.
Young as he was he could enjoy a fine picture. There was a pretty
demureness in the girl's manner a warm piquancy in the turn of the neck
and a delicacy in her gestures which to him fresh from hard hours in
the woods was part of some delightful Arcady--though Arcady was more in
his veins than of his knowledge. For the young seigneur of New France
spent far more hours with his gun than with his Latin and knew his bush-
ranging vassal better than his tutor; and this one was too complete a
type of his order to reverse its record. He did not look to his scanty
lace or set himself seemingly; he did but stop flicking the scarf held
loose in his fingers his foot still on the bench. A smile played at his
lips and his eyes had a gleam of raillery. He heard the girl say in a
soft quaint voice just as she turned towards him "Foolish boy!" By
this he knew that the pretty picture had for its inspiration one of his
own sex.
She faced him and gave a little cry of surprise. Then their eyes met.
Immediately he made the most elaborate bow of all his life and she swept
a graceful courtesy. Her face was slightly flushed that this stranger
should have seen but he carried such an open cordial look that she
paused instead of hurrying into the governor's room as she had seemed
inclined to do.
In the act the string of her hat slung over her arm came loose and the
hat fell to the floor. Instantly he picked it up and returned it.
Neither had spoken a word. It seemed another act of the light pantomime
at the door. As if they had both thought on the instant how droll it
was they laughed and she said to him naively: "You have come to visit
the governor? You are a Frenchman are you not?"
To this in slow and careful English "Yes" he replied; "I have come from
Canada to see his excellency. Will you speak French?"
"If you please no" she answered smiling; "your English is better than
my French. But I must go." And she turned towards the door of the
governor's room.
"Do not go yet" he said. "Tell me are you the governor's daughter?"
She paused her hand at the door. "Oh no" she answered; then in a
sprightly way--"are you a governor's son?"
"I wish I were" he said "for then there'd be a new intendant and we'd
put Nick Perrot in the council."
"What is an intendant?" she asked "and who is Nick Perrot?"
"Bien! an intendant is a man whom King Louis appoints to worry the
governor and the gentlemen of Canada and to interrupt the trade.
Nicolas Perrot is a fine fellow and a great coureur du bois and helps
to get the governor out of troubles to-day the intendant to-morrow.
He is a splendid fighter. Perrot is my friend."
He said this not with an air of boasting but with a youthful and
enthusiastic pride which was relieved by the twinkle in his eyes and
his frank manner.
"Who brought you here?" she asked demurely. "Are they inside with the
governor?"
He saw the raillery; though indeed it was natural to suppose that he
had no business with the governor but had merely come with some one.
The question was not flattering. His hand went up to his chin a little
awkwardly. She noted how large yet how well-shaped it was or rather
she remembered afterwards. Then it dropped upon the hilt of the rapier
he wore and he answered with good self-possession though a little hot
spot showed on his cheek: "The governor must have other guests who are
no men of mine; for he keeps an envoy from Count Frontenac long in his
anteroom."
The girl became very youthful indeed and a merry light danced in her
eyes and warmed her cheek. She came a step nearer. "It is not so?
You do not come from Count Frontenac--all alone do you?"
"I'll tell you after I have told the governor" he answered pleased and
amused.
"Oh I shall hear when the governor hears" she answered with a soft
quaintness and then vanished into the governor's chamber. She had
scarce entered when the door opened again and the servant a Scotsman
came out to say that his excellency would receive him. He went briskly
forward but presently paused. A sudden sense of shyness possessed him.
It was not the first time he had been ushered into vice-regal presence
but his was an odd position. He was in a strange land charged with an
embassy which accident had thrust upon him. Then too the presence of
the girl had withdrawn him for an instant from the imminence of his duty.
His youth came out of him and in the pause one could fairly see him turn
into man.
He had not the dark complexion of so many of his race but was rather
Saxon in face with rich curling brown hair. Even in that brave time one
might safely have bespoken for him a large career. And even while the
Scotsman in the doorway eyed him with distant deprecation as he eyed all
Frenchmen good and bad ugly or handsome he put off his hesitation and
entered the governor's chamber. Colonel Nicholls came forward to greet
him and then suddenly stopped astonished. Then he wheeled upon the
girl. "Jessica you madcap!" he said in a low voice.
She was leaning against a tall chair both hands grasping the back of it
her chin just level with the top. She had told the governor that Count
Frontenac had sent him a lame old man and that enemy or none he ought
not to be kept waiting with arm in sling and bandaged head. Seated at
the table near her was a grave member of the governor's council William
Drayton by name. He lifted a reproving finger at her now but with a
smile on his kindly face and "Fie fie young lady!" he said in a
whisper.
Presently the governor mastered his surprise and seeing that the young
man was of birth and quality extended his hand cordially enough and
said: "I am glad to greet you sir;" and motioned him to a seat. "But
pray sit down" he added "and let us hear the message Count Frontenac
has sent. Meanwhile we would be favoured with your name and rank."
The young man thrust a hand into his doublet and drew forth a packet of
papers. As he handed it over he said in English--for till then the
governor had spoken French having once served with the army of France
and lived at the French Court: "Your excellency my name is Pierre le
Moyne of Iberville son of Charles le Moyne a seigneur of Canada of
whom you may have heard." (The governor nodded.) "I was not sent by
Count Frontenac to you. My father was his envoy: to debate with you
our trade in the far West and our dealings with the Iroquois."
"Exactly" said old William Drayton tapping the table with his
forefinger; "and a very sound move upon my soul."
"Ay ay" said the governor "I know of your father well enough. A good
fighter and an honest gentleman as they say. But proceed Monsieur le
Moyne of Iberville."
"I am called Iberville" said the young man simply. Then: "My father and
myself started from Quebec with good Nick Perrot the coureur du bois--"
"I know him too" the governor interjected--"a scoundrel worth his weight
in gold to your Count Frontenac."
"For whose head Count Frontenac has offered gold in his time" answered
Iberville with a smile.
"A very pretty wit" said old William Drayton nodding softly towards the
girl who was casting bright quizzical glances at the youth over the
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