by John Buchan
“Bit by bit I began to learn about Galliard, partly from L. and partly from the man himself. He had been brought up in the stiff tradition of Les Canadiens, had revolted against it, and had locked the door on his early life. But it was the old story. His ancestry had its revenge, a revenge bound to be especially harsh, I fancy, in the case of one of his breeding. He had fled from the glittering world in which he had won success and from a devoted wife, to the home of his childhood. And here came a tangle of motives. He had in his blood the pioneer craving to move ever further into the wilds; his family, indeed, had given more than one figure to the story of Arctic exploration. He conceived that he owed a duty to the family tradition which he had forsaken, and that he had to go into the North as an atonement. He also seems to have conceived it as part of the penance which he owed for the neglect of his family religion. He is a man, I think, of sentiment and imagination rather than of a high spirituality.
“But his penance turned out severer than he dreamed. He fell into a malaise which, it is my belief, was at bottom the same as the Hares’ affliction, and which seems to be endemic in the North. It may be defined as fear of the North, or perhaps more accurately as fear of life. In the North, man to live, has to fight every hour against hostile forces; if his spirit fails and his effort slackens he perishes. But this dread was something more than a rational fear of a potent enemy. There was superstition in it, a horror of a supernatural and desperate malevolence. This set the Hares mooning in their shacks awaiting death, and it held Galliard, a man of education and high ability, in the same blind, unreasoning bondage. His recovered religion gave him no defence, for he read this fear as part of the price to be paid for his treason.
“Then L. came on the scene. He saved Galliard’s life. He appeared when Frizelle, in a crazy fit, deserted him, and he had come from England in the last stage of a dire sickness to restore Galliard to his old world. In L.’s grim fortitude Galliard found something that steadied his nerves. More, he learned from L. the only remedy for his malaise. He must fight the North and not submit to it; once fought and beaten, he could win from it not a curse but a blessing.
“Therefore he eagerly accepted the task of grappling with the Hares’ problem. Here was a test case. They were defying the North; they were resisting a madness akin to his own. If they won, the North had no more terrors for him — or life either. He would have conquered his ancestral fear.
“Then something was added to his armour. He had revered L., and soon he came to love him. He thought more of L.’s bodily well-being than of his own nerves. And in forgetting his own troubles he found they had disappeared. After a fortnight in the camp he was like the man in the Scriptures out of whom the devil spirit was cast — wholly sane and at peace, but walking delicately.
19
“But L. was my chief concern. I have said that in him I witnessed the rebirth of a soul, but that is not quite the truth. The soul, a fine soul, was always there. More, though not of the Church, I do not hesitate to say that he was of the Faith. Alids oves habeo quae non sunt ex hoc ovili. But he had been frozen by hard stoicism which sprang partly from his upbringing and partly from temperament. He was a strong man with an austere command of himself, and when he had to face death he divested himself of all that could palliate the suffering, and stood up to it with a stark resolution which was more Roman than Christian. What I witnessed was the thawing of the ice.
“He had always bowed himself before the awful majesty of God. Now his experience was that of the Church in the thirteenth century, when they found in the Blessed Virgin a gentle mediatrix between mortal and divine. Or perhaps I should put it thus: that he discovered that tenderness and compassion which Our Lord came into the world to preach, and, in sympathy with others, he lost all care for himself. His noble, frosty egoism was merged in something nobler. He had meant to die in the cold cathedral of the North, ceasing to live in a world which had no care for life. Now he welcomed the humblest human environment, for he had come to love his kind, indeed, to love everything that God had made. He once said (he told me he was quoting an English poet) that he ‘carried about his heart an awful warmth like a load of immortality.’
“When I first met him at Fort Bannerman he seemed to me the typical Englishman, courteous, aloof, the type I knew well in the War. But now there seemed to be a loosening of bonds. He talked very little, but he smiled often, and he seemed to radiate a gentle, compelling courtesy. But there was steel under the soft glove. He had always the air of command, and the Hares obeyed his lightest word as I am certain they never obeyed any orders before in their tribal history. As his strength declined he could speak only in a whisper, but his whispers had the authority of trumpets. For he succeeded in diffusing the impression of a man who had put all fear behind him and was already in communion with something beyond our mortality.
“He shared his confidences with no one. Monsieur Galliard, who had come to regard him with devotion, would never have dared to pierce his reserve. I tried and failed. With him I had not the authority of the Church, and, though I recognised that he was nearing death, I could not offer the consolations of religion unless he had asked for them. I should have felt it an impiety, for I recognised that in his own way he was making his soul. As the power of the sun waxed he liked to bask in it with his eyes shut, as if in prayer or a daydream. He borrowed my Latin Bible and read much in it, but the book would often lie on his knees while he watched with abstracted eyes the dazzle of light on the snow of the far mountains.
“It is a strange fact to chronicle, but I think his last days were his happiest. His strength was very low, but he had done his work and the Hares were out of the pit. Monsieur Galliard tended him like a mother or a sister, helped him to dress and undress, keeping the hut warm, cooking for him and feeding him. The hunters, the Frizelles and the Hares, came to visit him on every return journey. Old Zacharias would remain for hours near his door in case he might be summoned. But all respected his privacy, for they felt that he had gone into retreat before death. I saw him oftenest, and the miracle was that, as the spring crept back to the valley, there seemed to be a springtime in his spirit.
“He came often to Mass — the last occasion being the High Mass at Easter, which for the Hares was also a thanksgiving for recovery. The attendance was now exemplary. The little church with its gaudy colouring — the work of old Brother Onesime, and much admired by Father Wentzel — was crowded to the door. The Hares have an instinct for ritual, and my acolytes serve the altar well, but they have none for music, and I had found it impossible to train much of a choir. L. would sit in a corner following my Latin with his lips, and he seemed to draw comfort from it. I think the reason was that he was now sharing something with the Hares, and was not a director, but one of the directed. For he had come to love those poor childish folk. Hitherto a lonely man, he had found a clan and a family.
“After that Easter Sunday his body went fast downhill. I do not think he suffered much, except from weakness. His manner became gentler than ever, and his eyes used often to have the pleased look of a good child. He smiled, too, often, as if he saw the humours of life. The huskies — never a very good-tempered pack, though now they were well fed — became his friends, and one or two of the older beasts would accompany him out of doors with a ridiculous air of being a bodyguard. One cold night, I remember, one of them suddenly ensconced itself in an empty box outside the presbytery door. I can still hear L. talking to it. ‘I know what you’re saying, old fellow. “I’m a poor dog and my master’s a poor man. I’ve never had a box like this to sleep in. Please don’t turn me out.”’ So there it remained — the first time I have seen a husky with ambitions to become a house dog.
“He watched eagerly for the signs of spring. The first was the return of the snow buntings, shimmering grey flocks which had wintered in the south. These he would follow with his eyes as they fluttered over the pine woods or spread themselves like a pied shadow on the snow. Then the mountain we call Baldface suddenly shed
most of its winter covering, the noise of avalanches punctuated the night, and the upper ribs were disclosed, black as ink in the daytime, but at evening flaming into the most amazing hues of rose and purple. I knew that he had been an alpinist of note, and in these moments I fancy he was recapturing some of the activities of his youth. But there was no regret in his eyes. He was giving thanks for another vision of the Glory of God.
“The last time he was able to go abroad Monsieur Galliard and I assisted him down to the edge of the lake. There was still a broad selvedge of ice — what the Canadian French call batture — but in the middle the ice was cracking, and there were lanes of water to reflect the pale blue sky. Also the streams were being loosed from their winter stricture. One could hear them talking under their bonds, and in one or two places the force of water had cleared the boulders and made pools and cascades. . . . A wonderful thing happened. A bull moose, very shaggy and lean, came out of the forest and stood in an open shallow at a stream’s mouth. It drank its fill and then raised its ugly head, shook it and stared into the sunset. Crystal drops fell from its mouth, and the setting sun transfigured the beast into something magical, a beneficent dragon out of a fairy tale. I shall never forget L.’s delight. It was as if he had his last sight of the beauty of the earth, and found in it a pledge of the beauty of Paradise; though I doubt if there will be anything like a bull-moose in the Heavenly City. . . . Three days later he died in his sleep. There was no burial, for Monsieur Galliard wished the interment to be at his old home in Quebec. The arrival of two of the R.C.M.P. made it possible to convey the body to Fort Bannerman, whence it would be easy to complete the journey by air.
“Such is my story of the end of a true man-at-arms whose memory will always abide with me. He was not of the Church, but beyond doubt he died in grace. In his last hours he found not peace only, but beatitude. Dona aeternam quietem Domine et lux perpetua luceat ei.”
20
The chief beauty of the Canadian spring is its air of fragility. The tints are all delicate; the sky is the palest blue, the green is faint and tender, with none of the riot of an English May. The airy distances seem infinite, for the mind compels the eye to build up other lands beyond the thin-pencilled horizons.
A man and a woman were sitting on the greening turf by the well of the Clairefontaine stream. The man wore a tweed suit of a city cut, but he had the colour and build of a countryman. The woman had taken off her hat, and a light wind was ruffling her hair. Beneath them was a flat pad of ground, and on it, commanding the source of both the north and south-flowing rivulets, was a wooden cross which seemed to mark a grave.
The eyes of both were turned northward where the wooded hills, rising sometimes to rocky scarps, shepherded the streams to the Arctic watershed.
Galliard slowly filled a pipe. His face had filled out, and his jaw was firmer. There were now no little lines of indecision about his mouth. Also his eyes were quiet and content.
For a little the two did not speak. Their eyes followed the slender north-flowing stream. It dropped almost at once into a narrow ravine, but it was possible to mark where that ravine joined a wider valley, and where that valley clove its way into the dark tangle of forested mountains.
“What happens away up there?” the woman asked. “I should like to follow the water.”
“It becomes a river which breaks into the lowlands and wanders through muskegs and bush until it reaches the salt. Hudson’s Bay, you know. Dull, shallow tides at first, and then the true Arctic, ice-bound for most of the year. Away beyond are the barrens, and rivers of no name, and then the Polar Sea, and the country where only the white bear and the musk ox live. And at the end a great solitude. Some day we will go there together.”
“You don’t fear it any more?”
“No. It has become part of me, as close to me as my skin. I love it. It is myself. You see, I have made my peace with the North, faced up to it, defied it, and so won its blessing. Consider, my dear. The most vital forces of the world are in the North, in the men of the North, but only when they have annexed it. It kills those who run away from it.”
“I see,” she said after a long pause. “I know what you mean. I think I feel it. . . . But the Sick Heart River! Wasn’t that a queer fancy?”
Galliard laughed.
“It was the old habit of human nature to turn to magic. Lew Frizel wanted a short cut out of his perplexities. So did I, and I came under the spell of his madness. First I came here. Then I went to the Ghost River. Then I heard Lew’s story. I was looking for magic, you see. We both had sick hearts. But it was no good. The North will always call your bluff.”
“And Leithen? He went there, didn’t he?”
“Yes, and brought Lew away. Leithen didn’t have a sick heart. He was facing the North with clear eyes. He would always have won out.”
“But he died!”
“That was victory — absolute victory. . . . But Leithen had a fleuve de rêve also. I suppose we all have. It was this little stream. That’s why we brought his body here. It is mine, too — and yours — the place we’ll always come back to when we want comforting.”
“Which stream?” she asked. “There are two.”
“Both. One is the gate of the North and the other’s the gate of the world.”
She faced round and looked down the green cup of the Clairefontaine. It was a pleasant, pastoral scene, with none of the wildness of the other — the white group of farm buildings in the middle distance and the patches of plough-land, and far beyond a blue shimmer which was the St. Lawrence.
The woman laughed happily.
“That is the way home,” she said.
“Yes, it is the way home — to our home, Felicity, which please God will never again be broken. I’ve a lot of atoning to do. The rest of my life cannot be long enough to make up to you for what you have suffered.”
She stroked his hair. “We’ll forget all that. We’re starting afresh, you know. This is a kind of honeymoon.”
She stopped and gazed for a little at the glen, which suddenly overflowed with a burst of sunlight.
“It is also the way to the wars,” she said gravely.
“Yes, I’m bound for the wars. I don’t know where my battlefront will be. In Europe, perhaps, or maybe in New York or Washington. The North hasn’t sent me back to malinger.”
“No, of course not. But, anyhow, we’re together — we’ll always be together.”
The two by a common impulse turned their eyes to the wooden cross on the lawn of turf. Galliard rose.
“We must hurry, my dear. The road back is none too good.”
She seemed unwilling to go.
“I feel rather sad, don’t you? You’re leaving your captain behind.”
Galliard turned to his wife, and she saw that in his eyes which made her smile.
“I can’t feel sad,” he said. “When I think of Leithen I feel triumphant. He fought a good fight, but he hasn’t finished his course. I remember what Father Duplessis said — he knew that he would die; but he knew also that he would live.”
THE END
THE LONG TRAVERSE
Published posthumously in November 1941, Buchan’s last novel is an exciting adventure story, involving the daring boy Donald, who is spending his summer holidays in the Canadian countryside. The Long Traverse demonstrates Buchan’s understanding of the Native Indians of Canada’s history, blending supernatural and spiritual elements, including the device that Indians were said to have the power of projecting happenings of long ago on to calm water. The novel also features the character Negog, a Native American Indian, who is Donald’s companion and guide. Negog conjures up a strange mist from a magic fire and brings to life visions from the past. Through many boyish adventures, involving Vikings, gold prospectors, Indians and Eskimos, Donald learns much about the history and people of the country.
The first edition
CONTENTS
CHAPTER I. The Long Traverse
CHAPTER II. The Gold of
Sagné
CHAPTER III. The Wonderful Beaches
CHAPTER IV. Cadieux
CHAPTER V. The Man who dreamed of Islands
CHAPTER VI. Big Dog
CHAPTER VII. White Water
CHAPTER VIII. The Faraway People
EPILOGUE
The original frontispiece
CHAPTER I. The Long Traverse
THE thicket of self-sown larches, ringed with a glory of devil’s paint-brushes, ended on the scarp of the hill as if some giant plane had shaved it clean. Donald struggled untidily out of the covert, for he had missed the trail, and with a whoop cantered down the long turf slope, jumping the patches of juniper. In three minutes he had traversed the waterside fringe of birch and poplar and was on a broad beach of shingle, beyond which, like the mane of a wild horse, the white waters of the Manitou swung to the sea-pool.
This year he had come to Bellefleurs alone, and he was very proud. His family would follow in a week, and with two servants he was getting the camp ready for them. It was a tremendous adventure, since for seven days he would be, within limits, his own master. He could go to bed when he was sleepy, and get up when he woke, and swim when he felt inclined. The sailing dinghy was forbidden him, but nothing had been said about the river canoes. He had never yet caught a salmon, and the salmon rods were in his father’s case, but he could try for a monster with his own little greenheart. He might even get as far as the Grand Lac de Manitou, tucked far away in the hills....
There was a swirl at the tail of the pool above the rapids and his heart jumped, for he saw that it was a big fish.
