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Isobel

<h4>VII</h4> <h4>THE MADNESS OF PELLITER</h4> Away up at Fullerton Point amid the storm and crash of the arctic gloom Pelliter fought himself through day after day of fever, waiting for MacVeigh. At first he had been filled with hope. That first glimpse of the sun they had seen through the little window on the morning that Billy left for Fort Churchill had come just in time to keep reason from snapping in his head. For three days after that he looked through the window at the same hour and prayed moaningly for another glimpse of that paradise in the southern sky. But the storm through which Isobel had struggled across the Barren gathered over his head and behind him, day after day of it, rolling and twisting and moaning with the roar of the cracking fields of ice, bringing back once more the thick death-gloom of the arctic night that had almost driven him mad. He tried to think only of Billy, of his loyal comrade’s race into the south, and of the precious letters he would bring back to him; and he kept track of the days by making pencil marks on the door that opened out upon the gray and purple desolation of the arctic sea. At last there came the day when he gave up hope. He believed that he was dying. He counted the marks on the door and found that there were sixteen. Just that many days ago Billy had set off with the dogs. If all had gone well he was a third of the way back, and within another week would be “home.” Pelliter’s thin, fever-flushed face relaxed into a wan smile as he counted the pencil marks again. Long before that week was ended he figured that he would be dead. The medicines— and the letters— would come too late, probably four or five days too late. Straight out from his last mark he drew a long line, and at the end of it added in a scrawling, almost unintelligible, hand: “Dear Billy, I guess this is going to be my last day.” Then he staggered from the door to the window. Out there was what was killing him— loneliness, a maddening desolation, a lifeless world that reached for hundreds of miles farther than his eyes could see. To the north and east there was nothing but ice, piled-up masses and grinning mountains of it, white at first, of a somber gray farther off, and then purple and almost black. There came to him now the low, never-ceasing thunder of the undercurrents fighting their way down from the Arctic Ocean, broken now and then by a growling roar as the giant forces sent a crack, like a great knife, through one of the frozen mountains. He had listened to those sounds for five months, and in those five months he had heard no other voice but his own and MacVeigh’s and the babble of an Eskimo. Only once in four months had he seen the sun, and that was on the morning that MacVeigh went south. So he had gone half mad. Others had gone completely mad before him. Through the window his eyes rested on the five rough wooden crosses that marked their graves. In the service of the Royal Northwest Mounted Police they were called heroes. And in a short time he, Constable Pelliter, would be numbered among them. MacVeigh would send the whole story down to her, the true little girl a thousand miles south; and she would always remember him— her hero— and his lonely grave at Point Fullerton, the northernmost point of the Law. But she would never see that grave. She could never come to put flowers on it, as she put flowers on the grave of his mother; she would never know the whole story, not a half of it— his terrible longing for a sound of her voice, a touch of her hand, a glimpse of her sweet blue eyes before he died. They were to be married in August, when his service in the Royal Mounted ended. She would be waiting for him. And in August— or July— word would reach her that he had died. With a dry sob he turned from the window to the rough table that he had drawn close to his bunk, and for the thousandth time he held before his red and feverish eyes a photograph. It was a portrait of a girl, marvelously beautiful to Tommy Pelliter, with soft brown hair and eyes that seemed always to talk to him and tell him how much she loved him. And for the thousandth time he turned the picture over and read the words she had written on the back: <BLOCKQUOTE>“My own dear boy, remember that I am always with you, always thinking of you, always praying for you; and I know, dear, that you will always do what you would do if I were at your side.”</BLOCKQUOTE> “Good Lord!” groaned Pelliter. “I can’t die! I can’t! I’ve got to live— to see her—” He dropped back on his bunk exhausted. The fires burned in his head again. He grew dizzy, and he talked to her, or thought he was talking, but it was only a babble of incoherent sound that made Kazan, the one-eyed old Eskimo dog, lift his shaggy head and sniff suspiciously. Kazan had listened to Pelliter’s deliriums many times since MacVeigh had left them alone, and soon he dropped his muzzle between his forepaws and dozed again. A long time afterward he raised his head once more. Pelliter was quiet. But the dog sniffed, went to the door, whined softly, and nervously muzzled the sick man’s thin hand. Then he settled back on his haunches, turned his nose straight up, and from his throat there came that wailing, mourning cry, long-drawn and terrible, with which Indian dogs lament before the tepees of masters who are newly dead. The sound aroused Pelliter. He sat up again, and he found that once more the fire and the pain had gone from his head. “Kazan, Kazan,” he pleaded, weakly, “it isn’t time— yet!” Kazan had gone to the window that looked to the west, and stood with his forefeet on the sill. Pelliter shivered. “Wolves again,” he said, “or mebbe a fox.” He had grown into that habit of talking to himself, which is as common as human life itself in the far north, where one’s own voice is often the one thing that breaks a killing monotony. He edged his way to the window as he spoke and looked out with Kazan. Westward there stretched the lifeless Barren illimitable and void, without rock or bush and overhung by a sky that always made Pelliter think of a terrible picture he had once seen of Doré’s “Inferno.” It was a low, thick sky, like purple and blue granite, always threatening to pitch itself down in terrific avalanches, and between the earth and this sky was the thin, smothered worldrM which MacVeigh had once called God’s insane asylum. Through the gloom Kazan’s one eye and Pelliter’s feverish vision could not see far, but at last the man made out an object toiling slowly toward the cabin. At first he thought it was a fox, and then a wolf, and then, as it loomed larger, a straying caribou. Kazan whined. The bristles along his spine rose stiff and menacing. Pelliter stared harder and harder, with his face pressed close against the cold glass of the window, and suddenly he gave a gasping cry of excitement. It was a man who was toiling toward the cabin! He was bent almost double, and he staggered in a zigzag fashion as he advanced. Pelliter made his way feebly to the door, unbarred it, and pushed it partly open. Overcome by weakness he fell back then on the edge of his bunk, It seemed an age before he heard steps. They were slow and stumbling, and an instant later a face appeared at the door. It was a terrible face, overgrown with beard, with wild and staring eyes; but it was a white man’s face. Pelliter had expected an Eskimo, and he sprang to his feet with sudden strength as the stranger came in. “Something to eat, mate, for the love o’ God give me something to eat!” The stranger fell in a heap on the floor and stared up at him with the ravenous entreaty of an animal. Pelliter’s first move was to get whisky, and the other drank it in great gulps. Then he dragged himself to his feet, and Pelliter sank in a chair beside the table. “I’m sick,” he said. “Sergeant MacVeigh has gone to Churchill, and I guess I’m in a bad way. You’ll have to help yourself. There’s meat— ’n’ bannock—” Whisky had revived the new-comer. He stared at Pelliter, and as he stared he grinned, ugly yellow teeth leering from between his matted beard. The look cleared Pelliter’s brain. For some reason which he could not explain, his pistol hand fell to the place where he usually carried his holster. Then he remembered that his service revolver was under the pillow. “Fever,” said the sailor; for Pelliter knew that he was a sailor. He took off his heavy coat and tossed it on the table. Then he followed Pelliter’s instructions in quest of food, and for ten minutes ate ravenously. Not until he was through and seated opposite him at the table did Pelliter speak. “Who are you, and where in Heaven’s name did you come from?” he asked. “Blake— Jim Blake’s my name, an’ I come from what I call Starvation Igloo Inlet, thirty miles up the coast. Five months ago I was left a hundred miles farther up to take care of a cache for the whaler John B. Sidney, and the cache was swept away by an overflow of ice. Then we struck south, hunting and starving, me ’n’ the woman—” “The woman!” cried Pelliter. “Eskimo squaw,” said Blake, producing a black pipe. “The cap’n bought her to keep me company— paid four sacks of flour an’ a knife to her husband up at Wagner Inlet. Got any tobacco?” Pelliter rose to get the tobacco. He was surprised to find that he was steadier on his feet and that Blake’s words were clearing his brain. That had been his and MacVeigh’s great fight— the fight to put an end to the white man’s immoral trade in Eskimo women and girls, and Blake had already confessed himself a criminal. Promise of action, quick action, momentarily overcame his sickness. He went back with the tobacco, and sat down. “Where’s the woman?” be asked. “Back in the igloo,” said Blake, filling his pipe. “We killed a walrus up there and built an icehouse. The meat’s gone. She’s probably gone by this time.” He laughed coarsely across at Pelliter as he lighted his pipe. “It seems good to get into a white man’s shack again.” “She’s not dead?” insisted Pelliter. “Will be— shortly,” replied Blake. “She was so weak she couldn’t walk when I left. But them Eskimo animals die hard, ’specially the women.” “Of course you’re going back for her?” The other stared for a moment into Pelliter’s flushed face, and then laughed as though he had just heard a good joke. “Not on your life, my boy. I wouldn’t hike that thirty miles again— an’ thirty back— for all the Eskimo women up at Wagner.” The red in Pelliter’s eyes grew redder as he leaned over the table. “See here,” he said, “you’re going back— now! Do you understand? You’re going back!” Suddenly he stopped. He stared at Blake’s coat, and with a swiftness that took the other by surprise he reached across and picked something from it. A startled cry broke from his lips. Between his fingers he held a single filament of hair. It was nearly a foot long, and it was not an Eskimo woman’s hair. It shone a dull gold in the gray light that came through the window. He raised his eyes, terrible in their accusation of the man opposite him. “You lie!” he said. “She’s not an Eskimo!” Blake had half risen, his great hands clutching the ends of the table, his brutal face thrust forward, his whole body in an attitude that sent Pelliter back out of his reach. He was not an instant too soon. With an oath Blake sent the table crashing aside and sprang upon the sick man. “I’ll kill you!” he cried. “I’ll kill you, an’ put you where I’ve put her, ’n’ when your pard comes back I’ll—” His hands caught Pelliter by the throat, but not before there had come from between the sick man’s lips a cry of “Kazan! Kazan!” With a wolfish snarl the old one-eyed sledge-dog sprang upon Blake, and the three fell with a crash upon Pelliter’s bunk. For an instant Kazan’s attack drew one of Blake’s powerful hands from Pelliter’s throat, and as he turned to strike off the dog Pelliter’s hand groped out under his flattened pillow. Blake’s murderous face was still turned when he drew out his heavy service revolver; and as Blake cut at Kazan with a long sheath-knife which he had drawn from his belt Pelliter fired. Blake’s grip relaxed. Without a groan he slipped to the floor, and Pelliter staggered back to his feet. Kazan’s teeth were buried in Blake’s leg. “There, there, boy,” said Pelliter, pulling him away. “That was a close one!” He sat down and looked at Blake. He knew that the man was dead. Kazan was sniffing about the sailor’s head with stiffened spines. And then a ray of light flashed for an instant through the window. It was the sun— the second time that Pelliter had seen it in four months. A cry of joy welled up from his heart. But it was stopped midway. On the floor close beside Blake something glittered in the fiery ray, and Pelliter was upon his knees in an instant. It was the short golden hair he had snatched from the dead man’s coat, and partly covering it was the picture of his sweetheart which had fallen when the table was overturned. With the photograph in one hand and that single thread of woman’s hair between the fingers of his other Pelliter rose slowly to his feet and faced the window. The sun was gone. But its coming had put a new life into him. He turned joyously to Kazan. “That means something, boy,” he said, in a low, awed voice, “the sun, the picture, and this! She sent it, do you hear, boy? She sent it! I can almost hear her voice, an’ she’s telling me to go. `Tommy,’ she’s saying, `you wouldn’t be a man if you didn’t go, even though you know you’re going to die on the way. You can take her something to eat,’ she’s saying, boy, `an’ you can just as well die in an igloo as here. You can leave word for Billy, an’ you can take her grub enough to last until he comes, an’ then he’ll bring her down here, an’ you’ll be buried out there with the others just the same.’ That’s what she’s saying, Kazan, so we’re going!” He looked about him a little wildly. “Straight up the coast,” he mumbled. “Thirty miles. We might make it.” He began filling a pack with food. Outside the door there was a small sledge, and after he had bundled himself in his traveling-clothes he dragged the pack to the sledge, and behind the pack tied on a bundle of firewood, a lantern, blankets, and oil. After he had done this he wrote a few lines to MacVeigh and pinned the paper to the door. Then he hitched old Kazan to the sledge and started off, leaving the dead man where he had fallen. “It’s what she’d have us do,” he said again to Kazan. “She sure would have us do this, Kazan. God bless her dear little heart!” <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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