Burned Bridges by Bertrand W. Sinclair (bearly read books txt) 📕

Groom,  His Best-Man,  And The Ushers Went Attired In Blue Coats,  Brass

Buttons,  High White Satin Stocks,  Ruffled-Bosomed Shirts,  Figured Satin

Waistcoats,  Silk Stockings,  And Pumps. The New Yorker's Tailor,  If His

Pretensions To Fashion Were Well-Founded,  Was Elmendorf,  Or Brundage,  Or

Wheeler,  Or Tryon And Derby; His Hatter,  St. John,  And His Bootmakers,

Kimball And Rogers. For The Wedding Ceremony,  The Man's Hair Was Tightly

Frizzed By Maniort,  The Leading Hair-Dresser Of The Day. He Was The

Proprietor Of The Knickerbocker Barber-Shop At Broadway And Wall Street,

And The Town Gossip. Years Later He Was To Enjoy The Patronage Of The

Third Napoleon In Paris As A Reward For Favours Extended To The Prince

When The Latter Was An Exile Here. There Is Little Record Of Elaborate

Pre-Nuptial Bachelor Dinners In The Style Of Modern New York. What Would

Have Been The Use? The Gardens Of The City's Fashionable Homes Boasted

No Extensive Circular Fountains Or Artificial Fishponds Into Which The

Best-Man Or Tonded.

He Said Something Further,  A Few Quick Sentences In The French Patois

Of The Northern Half-Breeds,  At Which Both He And His Fellow-Voyageur In

The Stern Laughed. Their Gayety Stirred No Response From The Midship

Passenger. If Anything,  He Frowned. He Was A Serious-Minded Young Man,

And He Did Not Understand French. He Had A Faint Suspicion That His

Convoy Did Not Take Him As Seriously As He Wished. Whether Their Talk

Was Badinage Or Profanity Or Purely Casual,  He Could Not Say. In The

First Stages Of Their Journey Together,  On The Upper Reaches Of The

River,  Mike Breyette And Donald Macdonald Had,  After The Normal Habit Of

Their Kind,  Greeted The Several Contingencies And Minor Mishaps Such A

Journey Involved With Plaintive Oaths In Broken English. Mr. Wesley

Thompson,  Projected Into An Unfamiliar Environment And Among A--To

Him--Strange Manner Of Men,  Took Up His Evangelistic Cudgel And

Administered Shocked Reproof. It Was,  In A Way,  Practice For The Tasks

The Methodist Board Of Home Missions Had Appointed Him To Perform. But

If He Failed To Convict These Two Of Sin,  He Convinced Them Of

Discourtesy. Even A Rude Voyageur Has His Code Of Manners. Thereafter

They Invariably Swore In French.

They Bore On In A Northerly Direction,  Keeping Not Too Far From The Lake

Shore,  Lest The Combination Of A Sudden Squall And A Heavy-Loaded Canoe

Should Bring Disaster. When Mike Breyette's "Two-Tree" Hour Was Run Mr.

Thompson Stepped From The Canoe To The Sloping,  Sun-Blistered Beach

Before Fort Pachugan,  And If He Did Not Openly Offer Thanks To His Maker

That He Stood Once More Upon Solid Ground He At Least Experienced

Profound Relief.

For Many Days He Had Occupied That Midship Position With Ill-Concealed

Misgivings. The Largest Bodies Of Water He Had Been On Intimate Terms

With Heretofore Had Been Contained Within The Dimensions Of A Bathtub.

He Could Not Swim. No Matter That His Faith In An All-Wise Providence

Was Strong He Could Not Forbear Inward Tremors At The Certain Knowledge

That Only A Scant Quarter-Inch Of Frail Wood And Canvas Stood Between

Him And A Watery Grave. He Regarded A Canoe With Distrust. Nor Could He

Understand The Careless Confidence With Which His Guides Embarked In So

Captious A Craft Upon The Swirling Bosom Of That Wide,  Swift Stream They

Had Followed From Athabasca Landing Down To The Lake Of The Same Name.

To Thompson--If He Had Been Capable Of Analyzing His Sensations And

Transmuting Them Into Words--The River Seemed Inexplicably Sinister,  A

Turbid Monster Writhing Over Polished Boulders,  Fuming Here And There

Over Rapids,  Snarling A Constant Menace Under The Canoe's Prow.

It Did Not Comfort Him To Know That He Was In The Hands Of Two Capable

Rivermen,  Tried And Proven In Bad Water,  Proud Of Their Skill With The

Paddle. Could He Have Done So The Reverend Young Man Would Gladly Have

Walked After The First Day In Their Company. But Since That Was Out Of

The Question,  He Took His Seat In The Canoe Each Morning And Faced Each

Stretch Of Troubled Water With An Inward Prayer.

The Last Stretch And This Last Day Had Tried His Soul To Its Utmost.

Pachugan Lay Near The End Of The Water Route. What Few Miles He Had To

Travel Beyond The Post Would Lie Along The Lake Shore,  And The Lake

Reassured Him With Its Smiling Calm. Having Never Seen It Harried By

Fierce Winds,  Pounding The Beaches With Curling Waves,  He Could Not

Visualize It As Other Than It Was Now,  Glassy Smooth,  Languid,  Inviting.

Over The Last Twenty Miles Of The River His Guides Had Strained A Point

Now And Then,  Just To See Their Passenger Gasp. They Would Never Have

Another Chance And It Was Rare Sport,  Just As It Is Rare Sport For

Spirited Youths To Snowball A Passer-By Who Does Not Take Kindly To

Their Pastime.

In Addition To These Nerve-Disturbing Factors Thompson Suffered From The

Heat. A Perverted Dignity,  Nurtured In A Hard-Shell,  Middle-Class

Environment,  Prevented Him From Stripping To His Undershirt. The Sun's

Rays,  Diffusing Abnormal Heat Through The Atmosphere,  Reflected

Piercingly Upward From The Water,  Had Played Havoc With Him. His First

Act Upon Landing Was To Seat Himself Upon A Flat-Topped Boulder And Dab

Tenderly At His Smarting Face While His Men Hauled Up The Canoe. That In

Itself Was A Measure Of His Inefficiency,  As Inefficiency Is Measured In

The North. The Chief Factor Of A District Large Enough To Embrace A

European Kingdom,  Traveling In State From Post To Post,  Would Not Have

Been Above Lending A Hand To Haul The Canoe Clear. Thompson Had Come To

This _Terra Incognita_ To Preach And Pray,  To Save Men's Souls. So Far

It Had Not Occurred To Him That Aught Else Might Be Required Of A Man

Before He Could Command A Respectful Hearing.

Back From The Beach,  In A Clearing Hacked Out Of The Woods,  Stood A

Score Or More Of Low Cabins Flanking A Building More Ambitious In Scope

And Structure. More Than A Century Had Passed Since The First Foundation

Logs Were Laid In The Name Of The Hudson's Bay Company,  To The Company's

Glory And Profit. It Had Been A Fort Then,  In All That The Name Implies

Throughout The Fur Country. It Had Boasted A Stockade,  A Brass Cannon

Which Commanded The Great Gates That Swung Open To Friendly Strangers

And Were Closed Sharply To Potential Foes. But The Last Remnant Of

Pachugan's Glory Had Gone Glimmering Down The Corridors Of Time. The

Company Was Still As Strong,  Stronger Even In Power More Sure And Subtle

Than Ever Lay In Armed Retainers And Absolute Monopoly. But Fort

Pachugan Had Become A Mere Collecting Station For The Lesser Furs,  A

Distributing Center For Trade Goods To Native Trappers. There Were No

More Hostile Tribes. The Company No Longer Dealt Out The High Justice,

The Middle,  And The Low. The Stockade And The Brass Cannon Were

Traditions. Pachugan Sprawled On The Bank Of The Lake,  Open To All

Comers,  A Dimming Landmark Of The Old Days.

What Folk Were Out Of Doors Bent Their Eyes Upon The Canoe. The Factor

Himself Rose From His Seat On The Porch And Came Down To Have Speech

With Them. Thompson,  Recognizing Authority,  Made Known His Name And His

Mission. The Burly Scot Shook Hands With Him. They Walked Away Together,

Up To The Factor's House. On The Threshold The Reverend Wesley Paused

For A Backward Look,  Drew The Crumpled Linen Of His Handkerchief Across

His Moist Brow,  And Then Disappeared Within. Mike Breyette And Donald

Macdonald Looked At Each Other Expressively. Their Swarthy Faces Slowly

Expanded In A Broad Grin.

In The North,  What With The Crisp Autumn,  The Long Winter,  And That

Bleak,  Uncertain Period Which Is Neither Winter Nor Spring,  Summer--As

We Know It In Softer Lands--Has But A Brief Span To Endure. But Nature

There As Elsewhere Works Out A Balance,  Adheres To A Certain Law Of

Proportion. What Northern Summers Lack In Length Is Compensated By

Intensity. When The Spring Floods Have Passed And The Warm Rains Follow

Through Lengthening Days Of Sun,  Grass And Flowers Arise With Magic

Swiftness From A Wonderfully Fertile Soil. Trees Bud And Leaf; Berries

Form Hard On The Blossoming. Overnight,  As It Were,  The Woods And

Meadows,  The River Flats And The Higher Rolling Country,  Become

Transformed. And When August Passes In A Welter Of Flies And Heat And

Thunderstorms,  The North Is Ready Once More For The Frosty Segment Of

Its Seasonal Round. July And August Are Hot Months In The High

Latitudes. For Six Weeks Or Thereabouts The Bottom-Lands Of The Peace

And The Athabasca Can Hold Their Own With The Steaming Tropics. After

That--Well,  This Has To Do In Part With "After That." For It Was In Late

July When Wesley Thompson Touched At Fort Pachugan,  A Bible In His

Pocket,  A Few Hundred Pounds Of Supplies In Mike Breyette's Canoe,

Certain Aspirations Of Spiritual Labor In His Head,  And Little Other

Equipment To Guide And Succor Him In That Huge,  Scantily Peopled

Territory Which His Superiors Had Chosen As The Field For His Labors.

When Breyette And Macdonald Had So Bestowed The Canoe That The

Diligently Foraging Dogs Of The Post Could Not Take Toll Of Their

Supplies They Also Hied Them Up To The Cluster Of Log Cabins Ranging

About The Company Store And Factor's Quarters. They Were On Tolerably

Familiar Ground. First They Made For The Cabin Of Dougal Macphee,  An

Ancient Servitor Of The Company And A Distant Relative Of Breyette's,

For Whom They Had A Gift Of Tobacco. Old Dougal Welcomed Them

Laconically,  Without Stirring From His Seat In The Shade. He Sucked At

An Old Clay Pipe. His Half-Breed Woman,  As Wrinkled And Time Worn As

Himself,  Squatted On The Earth Sewing Moccasins. Old Dougal Turned His

Thumb Toward A Bench And Bade Them Be Seated.

"It's A Bit War-Rm," Macdonald Opined,  By Way Of Opening The

Conversation.

"What Else Wad It Be This Time O' Year?" Dougal Rumbled. "Tell Us

Somethin' We Dinna Ken. Wha's Yon Cam' Wi' Ye?"

"Man,  But The Heat Makes Ye Crabbed," Macdonald Returned With Naive

Candor. "Yon's A Meenister."

"Bagosh,  Yes," Breyette Chuckled. "Dat Ees De Man Of God W'at You See.

He's Com' For Save Soul Hon' De Eenjun Hon' Lone Moose. Bagosh,  We're

Have Som' Fon Weet Heem Dees Treep."

"He's A Loon," Macdonald Paused With A Forefinger In The Bowl Of His

Pipe. "He Doesna Know A Moccasin