Part 34 (1/2)
Nicholas paused.
”Hein!” said Father Brachet, ”what is it!”
The Indian came in with two cups of hot tea and a cracker in each saucer. He stopped at the priest's side.
”You get sick, too. Please take. Supper little late.” He nodded to Nicholas, and gave the white stranger the second cup. As he was going out: ”Same man here in July. You know”--he tapped himself on the left side--”man with sore heart.”
”Yansey?” said the priest quickly. ”Well, what about Yansey?”
”He is here.”
”But no! Wiz zose ozzers?”
”No, I think they took the dogs and deserted him. He's just been brought in by our boys; they are back with the moose-meat. Sore heart worse. He will die.”
”Who's looking after him?”
”Brother Paul”; and he padded out of the room in his soft native shoes.
”Then Brother Paul has polished off Catherine,” thought the Boy, ”and he won't waste much time over a sore heart. It behoves us to hurry up with our penitence.” This seemed to be Nicholas's view as well. He was beginning again in his own tongue.
”You know we like best for you to practise your English,” said the priest gently; ”I expect you speak very well after working so long on ze John J. Healy.”
”Yes,” Nicholas straightened himself. ”Me talk all same white man now.”
(He gleamed at the Boy: ”Don't suppose I need you and your perfidious tongue.”) ”No; us Pymeuts no wicked!”
Again he turned away from the priest, and challenged the Boy to repeat the slander. Then with an insinuating air, ”Shaman no say you wicked,”
he rea.s.sured the Father. ”Shaman say Holy Cross all right. Cheechalko no good; Cheechalko bring devils; Cheechalko all same _him_,” he wound up, flinging subterfuge to the winds, and openly indicating his faithless amba.s.sador.
”Strikes me I'm gettin' the worst of this argument all round. Brother Paul's been sailing into me on pretty much the same tack.”
”No,” said Nicholas, firmly; ”Brother Paul no unnerstan'. _You_ unnerstan'.” He came still nearer to the Father, speaking in a friendly, confidential tone. ”You savvy! Plague come on steamboat up from St. Michael. One white man, he got coast sickness. Sun s.h.i.+ning.
Salmon run big. Yukon full o' boats. Two days: no canoe on river. Men all sit in tent like so.” He let his mittens fall on the floor, crouched on his heels, and rocked his head in his hands. Springing up, he went on with slow, sorrowful emphasis: ”Men begin die--”
”Zen we come,” said the Father, ”wiz nurses and proper medicine--”
Nicholas gave the ghost of a shrug, adding the damaging fact: ”Sickness come to Holy Cross.”
The Father nodded.
”We've had to turn ze schools into wards for our patients,” he explained to the stranger. ”We do little now but nurse ze sick and prepare ze dying. Ze Muzzer Superieure has broken down after heroic labours. Paul, I fear, is sickening too. Yes, it's true: ze disease came to us from Pymeut.”
In the Father's mind was the thought of contagion courageously faced in order to succour ”the least of these my brethren.” In Nicholas's mind was the perplexing fact that these white men could bring sickness, but not stay it. Even the heap good people at Holy Cross were not saved by their deaf and impotent G.o.d.
”Fathers sick, eight Sisters sick, boy die in school, three girl die.
Holy Cross people kind--” Again he made that almost French motion of the shoulders. ”Shaman say, 'Peeluck!' No good be kind to devils; scare 'em--make 'em run.”
”Nicholas,” the priest spoke wearily, ”I am ashamed of you. I sought you had learned better. Zat old Shaman--he is a rare old rogue. What did you give him?”