Produced by Georges T. Dodds and Roger Frank.
THE CRYPTOGRAM.
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Entered according to act of Congress in the years 1897, 1898 and 1899 By STREET & SMITH, In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington, D. C.
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CONTENTS
I. THE SAVING OF GRAY MOOSE. 5 II. THE HOTEL IN BONAVENTURE STREET 11 III. FLORA HATHERTON. 17 IV. MUTUAL EXPLANATIONS. 22 V. THE ALARM IN THE NIGHT. 28 VI. PREPARATIONS FOR FLIGHT. 31 VII. THE SKIPPER OF THE SPEEDWELL. 36 VIII. CLOSE TO PORT. 42 IX. AT THE MERCY OF THE SEA. 45 X. THE DAWN OF DAY. 51 XI. A COPY OF "THE TIMES." 54 XII. A WARNING IN WOODCRAFT. 60 XIII. THE AMBUSCADE. 64 XIV. AN INDIAN'S GRATITUDE. 68 XV. FORT ROYAL. 72 XVI. A RESOLVE THAT FAILED. 76 XVII. A STRANGE WARNING. 80 XVIII. A STOLEN INTERVIEW. 86 XIX. ANOTHER VISITOR. 90 XX. THE LOST LOCKET. 93 XXI. THE BEGINNING OF THE END. 99 XXII. HOT WORK. 103 XXIII. THE SECOND RUSH. 108 XXIV. A BLACK NIGHT. 114 XXV. A RAY OF HOPE. 118 XXVI. AS TWILIGHT FELL. 123 XXVII. THE SIEGE OF THE HOUSE. 126 XXVIII. THE END OF HOPE. 131 XXIX. THE SECRET OF THE FACTOR'S DESK. 136 XXX. A STRANGE DISCOVERY. 141 XXXI. A CRY IN THE NIGHT. 146 XXXII. THE TRAVELER FROM ALASKA. 150 XXXIII. A CONVIVIAL MORNING. 156 XXXIV. ON THE WAY. 161 XXXV. RETRIBUTION. 165 XXXVI. A PAINFUL MYSTERY. 170 XXXVII. REST AND HAPPINESS. 174 XXXVIII. GOOD NEWS. 177 XXXIX. A MESSAGE. 182 XL. A STARTLING CHANGE. 186 XLI. BACK FROM THE DEAD. 191 XLII. TRUNK 409. 196 XLIII. A DRAMATIC INTERRUPTION. 200 XLIV. THE RIGHTFUL CLAIMANT. 205 XLV. FORGING THE LINKS. 209 XLVI. THE ALARM. 215 XLVII. CONCLUSION. 218
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THE CRYPTOGRAM.
CHAPTER I.
THE SAVING OF GRAY MOOSE.
I have long had in mind to set down the story of my early life, and now,as I draw pen and paper to me for the commencement of the task, I feelthe inspiration of those who wrote straight from the heart. It isunlikely that this narrative will ever appear in print, but if it doesthe reader may rely on its truthfulness and accuracy from beginning toend, strange and incredulous though parts of it may seem.
Thirty years ago! It is a long time, but the magic power of memorylaughs at wider gulfs. Every incident comes back to me with thevividness and clearness of yesterday. I hear the echo of voices thathave been silent these many years. Dead faces, some smiling and somelooking fierce-haired, take dim shape in the corners of the room.
Beyond the open window, where birds are twittering in the overhangingivy, an English landscape of meadow and woodland, hills and hamlets,rolls far in the sunshine of a June morning. It is the year 1846, in thereign of her gracious majesty, Queen Victoria. I close my eyes, and I amback in another world. I see the Great Lone Land--its rivers and lakes,its plains and peaks, its boundless leagues of wilderness stretchingfrom sea to sea. I sniff the fragrant odors of snow-clad birch and pine,of marsh pools glimmering in the dying glow of a summer sun. I hear thesplash of paddles and the glide of sledge-runners, the patter of flyingmoose and deer, and the scream of the hungry panther. I feel the weird,fascinating spell of the solitude and silence.
The Great Lone Land! Truly, to those who have known it, a name toconjure with! As it was then so it remains to-day, that vast,mysterious, romantic realm of the Canadas. The territory of the HudsonBay Company, chartered remotely and by royal warrant when Charles II wasking; the home of the Red Indian and the voyageur, the half-breedtrapper and hunter, the gentlemen adventurers of England, Scotland andFrance; a land of death by Indian treachery and grizzlies, starvationand freezing, snowslides and rapids; a mighty wilderness, with canoesand sledges for the vehicles of travel and commerce, and forest trailsjoining the scattered trading posts.
There I, Denzil Carew, was born. There was my home from the cradle tomanhood, and there my story lies. In that wild country I was nurturedand bred, schooled in the lore of the woods, taught to shoot and swim,to bear fatigue and to navigate dangerous waters. Nor did I grow up inignorance of finer arts, for my father, Bertrand Carew, was anEnglishman and a gentleman, and he took pains to give me the benefit ofhis own education and culture. Who his people were, or what had broughthim out to the Canadas, were things he never told me.
My mother was the daughter of a company factor in charge of Fort Beaver.I do not remember her, for she died when I was a year old. At thefactor's death my father succeeded to the post, and ten years later hewas killed by a treacherous Indian. Fort Beaver was then abandoned, anew post having been recently built, seventy miles farther north. Thiswas Fort Royal, on the Churchill River, one hundred miles south ofHudson's Bay, and I went there as assistant factor--I had already wornthe company's uniform for three years.
At that time I was twenty years old--very tall, and built in proportion,with light hair and eyes, and a mustache in which I took some pride. Iknew as much of the wilderness and the fur trade as any voyageur, and Ihad been twice to Quebec and other towns of Lower Canada.
I liked the life at Fort Royal, and I liked the factor, Griffith Hawke.We got on well together, and I performed my duties to his satisfaction.Thus five years passed way, and the closing of that uneventful periodbrings me to the opening proper of my story--to the mission that sent mefive hundred miles down country in the dead of winter to Fort Garry,where the town of Winnipeg now stands, and thence more than a thousandmiles eastward to Quebec. Concerning the purpose of the journey I shallspeak later, but it was not a thing to my taste or experience.
Distinctly I recall that frosty morning of March in the year 1815. Thepicture of life and color, breaking on a scene of wintry grandeur andsolitude, rises before my eyes. I see the frozen, snow-covered waste ofthe Lake of the Woods, the surrounding evergreen forests and toweringhills, the low leaden sky overhead. Along the edge of thescrubby-timbered shore, five husky dogs come at a trot, harnessed insingle file to a sledge. The dogs are short-legged and very hairy, withlong snouts, sharp-pointed ears, and the tails of wolves; the sledge isa simple toboggan made of two pieces of birch nine feet in length, theirends turned high in front. B
uckskin thongs hold the load in place, andat either side of this vehicle of the woods a brightly-clad figure onsnowshoes glides swiftly.
Of the two men, one was myself, and the other was my half-breed servantBaptiste. I wore the winter uniform of the Hudson Bay Company--a furredleather coat lined with flannel, a belt of scarlet worsted, breeches ofsmoked buckskin, moccasins of moose-hide, and blue cloth leggings. A furcap was on my head, and a strip of Scotch plaid about my neck. Baptistewas dressed like all the company's voyageurs and hunters, in a bluecapote, red flannel shirt, beaded corduroy trousers and fringedleggings, and a cap decked out with feathers. We each carried a musketand a hunting knife, a powder horn, and a bullet pouch.
Fort Garry, where we had stopped for a few days after a fortnight'ssteady travel from the Churchill River, was a week's journey behind us,and we were likely to be another month in the wilderness before weshould reach Quebec. But we liked the wild life better than the turmoilof towns, Baptiste and I, and we were in no haste to have done with it.The strange thing that was taking me to Quebec would not be ripe foraccomplishment until the coming of the tardy June spring of the Canadas,which was as yet eight or nine weeks off.
The weather was bitterly cold that March day, and we kept the dogs atsuch a pace that by noon we had covered a matter of twenty miles. Then,as we were speeding along the frozen river that leads from the Lake ofthe Woods to Lake Superior, we heard the report of a musket, followed bythe cry of a human voice and the growl of a beast. Baptiste and Istopped and at a word the dogs stood still and barked with upliftedsnouts. The sound had come from close by on our left, but now we heardonly a faint and receding patter on the snow crust.
"_Nom de Dieu_, there are two running!" cried Baptiste. "It is a chase."
"And the dogs smell a bear," I replied. "I am off to the rescue,Baptiste. Do you wait here with the sledge, and if I shout for help,come quickly."
With that I turned and made into the forest, unslinging my musket as Iran. Fifty yards through scrub and timber brought me to a spot that borethe imprint of big claws and moccasined feet. Here were a few drops ofblood on the snow, and the parts of a broken gun lying near. I had noneed to follow the trail, for as I pushed on with great strides thenoise of a struggle guided me straight.
It was but a short distance further. Breaking from the trees into arugged hollow, I came upon a thrilling scene. An Indian had soughtrefuge in a shallow crevice between two tall bowlders, and he was insore peril of his life from a monstrous grizzly that was striving totear him out. The bear--I had never seen a larger one--was dealing blowafter blow with his heavy paws, and the redskin was making the best useof his knife that his cramped position would allow. The clamor of beastand man made a blood-curdling din.
I mastered the situation at a glance and vowed to save the Indian. I wasas likely to hit him as the bear from where I stood, so I circledquickly around to one side. But the grizzly both heard and smelled me,and I had scarcely lifted my musket when he turned with a snarl of rage,and came at me. I aimed and fired. Bang!
It is difficult to kill a grizzly with a single shot, and as the smokedrifted aside I saw the brute advancing on hind legs. His eyes were likeballs of fire, his open jaws dripped foam, and he roared horribly withpain and anger. Blood was trickling from a wound close to the heart,made by my bullet, and there was another bleeding hole in his neck.
I had no chance to reload, and there was barely time to flee. But mytemper was up, and it drove me to a reckless determination. I stood myground for an instant, while the grizzly shambled on, pawing viciouslyat the air. Then I drew my long-bladed knife, darted out of the way, andas swiftly turned and struck under the sheltered fore feet. It was afoolish trick, and my agility barely saved me from a crushing blow. Asit was, I had to leave the knife sticking deep in the wound. But thethrust had gone straight to the heart, and I gave a yell of delight asthe great beast came down with a crash. He lay quite still after abrief struggle that churned the snow crust to powder.
The bear was dead, and my first step was to withdraw the knife and wipeit clean. Then, having shouted to Baptiste, I approached the crevicejust as the Indian crawled out. Too weak to rise, he propped himselfagainst a rock. He was bleeding profusely from a dozen wounds. His shirtof buffalo skin, his breech-clout, his fringed leggings of antelope, allhad been ripped to tatters by the grizzly's claws; his featheredscalp-lock was half torn from his head, and one shoulder was mangled.
I was full of pity at first, but my heart hardened when I recognized thesavage. He was Gray Moose, a Sioux of much influence, and he and hispeople were said to be carrying on underhand dealings with the NorthwestCompany, which was the great and dangerous rival of the Hudson BayCompany. We were known to each other, having met before on severaloccasions. Whether the above rumor was true or not, I was aware to acertainty that he held the Hudson Bay men in no favor; and I halfregretted that I had saved his life.
"How came you in such straits?" I asked coldly.
He explained in a few words, and in fairly good English. The grizzly hadcome upon him unawares, and in his haste to fire he had inflicted only aslight wound. Then he fled, and took shelter in the rock cranny as alast resort.
"The red man is grateful to Pantherfoot," he concluded, addressing me bya name which my skill at tracking game had won for me among the Indians."Gray Moose will not forget. Now let white man go his way."
But it was not in my nature to leave the poor wretch wounded andhelpless, and I told him so. On questioning him, I learned that avillage of his people was within a few miles, and I decided to take himthere. By this time Baptiste had arrived with the team, and afterdressing the Sioux's injuries as well as I could, I fixed himcomfortably on the sledge, the half-breed and I shouldering thedisplaced part of the load.
On the way my servant had picked up the broken musket, and when GrayMoose saw that the weapon was beyond mending--the grizzly had shatteredit by a terrific blow--such a look of misery came into his eyes assoftened my heart at once. I knew the value an Indian set on hisshooting-piece, and I gave him an extra gun which I chanced to have onthe sledge.
Baptiste upbraided me for my folly, and, indeed, I repented the act thenext moment; but the savage's gratitude was so sincere that I could notbring myself to take back the gift.
An hour's tramp--the direction was quite out of our way--brought us tothe Sioux village. We left Gray Moose with his friends, and pushed on,refusing an invitation to spend the night. I attached no significance tothe affair at the time, nor did I give it much thought afterward, butthe future was destined to prove that my trivial dead of kindness wasnot wasted, and that even a bad Indian will remember a benefactor.
I need make no further mention of our journey through the wilderness toQuebec, where we arrived safely in a little less than four weeks. But atthis point, for the better understanding of my narrative, I must setdown a brief statement of the ugly and threatening situation in theCanadas at the period of which I write. Long before--during many years,in fact--the Hudson Bay Company had vainly tried to obtain from theEnglish Parliament a confirmation of the charter granted them by CharlesII. But Parliament refused to decide the matter in one way or the other,and on the strength of this a number of French and Scotch merchants ofUpper Canada formed themselves into the Northwest Trading Company in1783. They established posts here and there, and in 1804 they erectedone on the very shore of Hudson's Bay.
Within the next few years their forts grew to outnumber those of theolder company, being scattered about in Prince Rupert's Land, and evenacross the Rocky Mountains in British Columbia. Then, in 1812, theHudson Bay Company made a bold move. Lord Selkirk, a prominent officialof the company in London, sent out a large colony of Scotchmen who hadbeen evicted from their homes in Sutherlandshire. He hoped thus to buildup a stronghold and seat of government that would brook no rivalry. Thecolonists came and settled at Fort Garry, at the forks of the Red River;but matters grew worse instead of better. Each company claimed to be inthe right, and was resolved to drive the ot
her out of existence. Duringthe next few years the men of the Northwest Company and of the HudsonBay Company came to blows more than once, and finally, in October of1814, the Northwest Company were ordered to remove from the territorywithin six months--a mandate which they treated with contempt andderision.
It was early in the following year, the reader will recall, thatBaptiste and I left Fort Churchill for Lower Canada, and from what wehad seen at and about Fort Garry when we stopped there, we weresatisfied that serious trouble was brewing, and that it would break outwhen navigation opened in the spring. We knew that the Northwest Companywere plotting to secure the aid of the Indians, and we were also awarethat the feeling throughout Lower Canada--even among the governmentofficials--was strongly in favor of the Hudson Bay Company's enemies.
Such being the situation, I was naturally anxious to get back to my postas soon as possible; for though I was not so hot-headed as to wish forwar, I was ready to fight for the supremacy of the company I served, andwhich my father had served before me. But I foresaw with distaste that Ishould probably be detained in Quebec until the summer months--since Iwas to await the arrival of a certain ship from England--and I enteredthat town with but a poor zest for my task.