Chapter VII Her Majesty’s Mail
“Ah, there you are at last,” said Madame Giroux, who was lighting the lamp for the evening meal as Jean entered. “You have worked hard to-day, my son. At this rate the hay will soon be cut, will it not? But sit down and take your soup, while I tell you something.
“You knew, of course, that Tom Sullivan was likely to lose the mail contract. Well, he has lost it, or will lose it very soon, as you will see from this paper which Monsieur Laroche has given me. It is whisky again, it seems. As Monsieur Laroche says, the good Canadians can drink in moderation, but the Irish do not know when to stop. For me, I would have them all stop before they begin. What a waste of good money! And to lose the mail contract as well—what folly! But listen:
“‘MAIL CONTRACT.
“‘Sealed applications addressed to the Minister of Posts will be received at Ottawa up to noon of Wednesday, the first of July, 1899, for carrying Her Majesty’s Mails under the conditions of a contract covering a term of four years, twice a week, going and returning, between Quebec and St. Placide, to commence on the fifteenth of July following.’
“There, Jean, what do you think of that?”
“It is an opportunity,” said Jean, “and I will make application at once; but I wish that it had not been suggested by Bonhomme Laroche.”
“Why not, Jean? He is a rich man, and has influence with the Government. He will help you, I am sure, if you ask him to do so.”
“I will not ask him, my mother, but I think that I shall win just the same. The Irish have had the contract for some years, and it is our turn now. Tom received a hundred dollars, did he not? One dollar for a drive of thirty miles, regardless of the weather. The Government is not liberal, certainly; but there will be passengers to carry now and then, and I can take butter and eggs to market in Quebec, where I shall receive better prices than at Beauport. Oh, I can see a clear profit of two hundred dollars a year, at the very least. My mother, we shall soon be as rich as Bonhomme Laroche, the old miser. Yes, I will apply to-morrow morning. There will be other applicants, no doubt.”
“Yes, Jean. Tom’s cousin, Paddy Brady, will try for it, to keep it in the family, you see.”
“That begins to be interesting,” said Jean, with a smile. “A little conflict of races, it seems. The Irish settlement will be up in arms.”
“Yes, Jean, and I am afraid of Tom Sullivan. He is big and strong and has a terrible temper, I am told. He might do you harm, Jean.”
“Do not fear, my mother. We have a good understanding, Tom and I, for we have had some little affairs already, you see. No, there is no danger at all. Well, in three weeks I shall be carrying Her Majesty’s Mails. That is not the summit of my ambition, by any means, but it is a step. Who can tell to what it may lead?”
On the very next day Jean sent his application to headquarters in Ottawa, and in about ten days received official notice of his appointment. At the same time Tom Sullivan and Paddy Brady heard the news, and their expressions of rage can better be imagined than described. They exhausted the resources of the English language in cursing Jean Baptiste and all his ancestors, and uttered imprecations in the old Erse tongue that were fearsome to hear. The bystanders were alarmed, and came to Jean to urge him to surrender the contract if he wished to save his life.
But Jean was not to be deterred from his purpose by any threats, and before dawn on the fifteenth of July he took the road for Quebec in his spring cart, with the light mail-bag under the seat and a supply of butter and eggs for the Champlain market. He was in high spirits, for all his work was going well, and he was making a fair start along the road to success. The years of preparation were over, and he was beginning to carry out his plans, to realize his dreams. The time of deliberation was at an end; the time for action had begun.
The morning was dark, but as Jean drove along the road the sky brightened, the stars went out one by one, and a rosy glow appeared in the East, chasing the shadows down the mountain-side, until the whole valley was filled with the clear light of day. As he reached the summit of the last hill he saw the sun rise over the mountains of Notre Dame. It touched all the circle of the hills with a tinge of gold, gleamed on the tin roofs and spires of Quebec, illuminated the slopes of Beauport, the Isle of Orleans and the cliffs of Levis, while the great river shone like burnished silver, and the ships, with their white sails, moved up stream with the rising tide. The heart of Jean Baptiste rose to greet the rising sun; his soul exulted in the glorious view; and his strong voice broke into song as he descended the long slope that led to the historic Beauport Road.
“A Saint-Malo beau port de mer,
A Saint-Malo, beau port de mer,
Trois gros navir’s sout arrivés.
Nous irons sur l’eau
Nous y prom’ promener
Nous irons jouer dans l’île.
“Trois gros navir’s sont arrivés,
Trois gros navir’s sont arrivés,
Charges d’avoin’, chargés de bled.
Nous irons sur l’eau
Nous y prom’ promener,
Nous irons jouer dans l’île.
Jean sang the dear, foolish old song to the very end, and sang it again and again until he came to the main road and joined the stream of vehicles of every description that were carrying hay and grain, butter and eggs, potatoes and onions, strawberries and currants, and all the produce of the Côte de Beaupré to the markets of Quebec. He was not well known in those parts, but had a cheerful greeting for all as he passed, and by the time he reached the bridge over the St. Charles it was known to half of the inhabitants of Beauport and many people from the more distant parishes that there was a new mail carrier from St. Placide, a gay, dare-devil of a fellow, a reckless driver, but withal a young man whom it was a pleasure to meet along the way, so debonair, so joyous, a good fellow in every sense of the word. There were those, even, who knew his name, who remembered his father, pronounced him a chip of the old block, and prophesied for him a brilliant career if he did not break his neck before he got well started on the road to fame and fortune.
In the afternoon, as Jean was returning by the same road, he was not so cheerful, and he did not sing, for the day had not fulfilled the promise of the morning hours. Soon after he crossed the toll bridge his horse cast a shoe, and he was obliged to return to a blacksmith’s shop in the city, where he spent an hour of his time and a considerable part of his day’s wages. Besides, he had to pay another toll at the bridge, which was irritating. A little later, as he was driving along at a rapid pace, trying to make up for lost time, a wheel came off the cart, and he narrowly escaped a bad fall. There was another hour’s delay, and further expense.
Jean’s reflections, as he toiled up the long, sandy hill toward the mountains, were anything but agreeable. He had given a whole day’s work for nothing and less than nothing. He would arrive late with the mail, receive a reprimand from the postmaster, and hear the sneering remarks of the impatient neighbours. Worst of all, he had been outwitted by Tom and Paddy, for there could be little doubt that both accidents had been brought about by some trickery of theirs, and it was impossible to tell what they would do next. Certainly, there was less profit in the contract than he had thought, and little prospect of improvement; but give it up because of opposition he would not, not if all the Sullivans and Bradys of the Irish settlement were to set upon him.
The sun was sinking behind the mountain as Jean reached the summit of the long hill, and it was almost dark when he came to the “Forks,” about a mile from the first house. The main road led direct to St. Placide, about five miles away, while the road to the left went up over the mountain in the direction of Lake Beauport, and reached St. Placide by a route circuitous and difficult, especially after dark. Jean’s horse was accustomed to the main road, but stopped at the “Forks,” and then quickly turned to climb the hill on the left.
“Sacré fou de cheval,” said Jean, with a laugh, “where are you going? You are not hungry, then. You don’t want to get home before midnight. There now, come about. It was a mistake. This way, old fellow. Marche donc!”
The horse came about, though unwillingly, but just as he had begun to trot along in response to a sharp cut of the whip, Jean heard a voice that seemed to come from some one standing directly in front of him:
“Take the other road!”
“Who’s there?” said Jean, looking to see who could be on the lonely road so late in the evening, but was surprised to find that nobody was in sight, while the horse began to rear and to back in sheer terror, and nearly upset the cart.
“There now, there now, old fool,” said Jean, in a reassuring voice. “You thought you heard something, did you? But nothing is there. Gently, now. It is nothing. Go on, then. We could go by the mountain, to be sure, but when should we arrive? No, my friend, we must take the usual way. Go along, now, softly, if you like, but go along. There is nothing to fear. Go along.”
Jean drove on, in some little trepidation, it must be confessed, and was not a little relieved when he heard the familiar sound of chopping, some distance ahead. Turning a corner he saw, about a hundred yards away, a man in the act of felling a large tree.
“Holloa, there!” he called. “Don’t fell that tree. It will block the road. Don’t fell it, I say! Ah, you idiot, you did it. Now, stupid, will you tell me how I shall get home.”
“You can walk, damn you!” said Tom Sullivan, for it was he; and beside him stood his cousin, Paddy Brady, also with an axe in his hand.
“Oh, it is you, Tom,” said Jean, with a friendly smile. “You are cutting some firewood, I see. Will you please take it out of the way as soon as possible.”
“Take it away yourself, you damned Frenchman,” said Tom, with a sneer. “What business have you coming along at this time o’ night? A fine mail driver you are. You should have been at the office two hours ago. By the powers, it’ll take you two hours more to get there on shank’s mare. Ha! Ha! The new driver will be late, and it’s not long he’ll be carrying Her Majesty’s Mail. Her Majesty’ll be getting rid of him damn quick, I be thinking.”
“Tom,” said Jean, in a conciliatory but firm tone, “will you take that timber away, or will you not?”
“I will not,” said Tom, defiantly.
“Then, Tom,” said Jean, getting out of the cart and advancing deliberately, “will you lend me your axe for a minute?”
“Lend you my axe, you damned thief!” roared Tom, with a volley of curses. “I’ll lend it to you. Yes! Take that!”
At the word Tom aimed a blow at Jean that would have split his head open, but that he, stepping nimbly aside, let the axe swing harmlessly by, and before Tom could recover, closed with him, wrenched the weapon from his hands and flung him violently to the ground.
“Help, Paddy, help!” yelled Tom. “Kill him, Paddy! For the love of God, kill him, I say!”
But Paddy had no stomach for a fight, and stood aside with mingled amazement and admiration as Jean, turning his back on both his enemies, began to cut the branches of the tree, close to the bark, with great rapidity, until finally he cut away the top and only the bare trunk remained to block the way.
“Now, Paddy,” said Jean, throwing down the axe, “if you will help me we’ll throw this log out of the way. There, take hold of that end. Now, Paddy, heave!”
Paddy put forth all his strength, but could not lift the end of the log, while Jean lifted his end about three feet, and then let it drop.
“What’s the matter, Paddy? Why don’t you lift?”
“Cut it in two and I’ll lift my end,” said Paddy. “Why, man, it weighs a ton at the very least.”
“A ton, Paddy, is that all? We can lift it, then. Come—another try.”
“Not for me,” said Paddy, standing back. “I know what I can do.”
“Well,” said Jean, “you surprise me, Paddy Brady. I am disappointed in you. But the log must go. Saint Jean to my aid. Watch me, Paddy.”
With that Jean bent down, his arms between his knees, his fingers gripping the log like a vice, and as he rose the log rose, slowly, steadily, until Jean stood erect holding the great trunk in his iron grip. Taking a long breath he put forth a mighty effort and lifted the log by the strength of his arms alone, inch by inch, until it reached the height of a man and rested for a moment on his shoulder. Then, taking hold lower down, Jean raised the log with ease until it stood upright, when, with a slight push, he sent it crashing down the cliff to the rocks below.
“My God!” said Paddy, with a gasp. “What a lift! I feel as though all my bones were cracked. Jean Baptiste, my bully boy, it’s the strong man of the world you are. Give me your hand, man alive. From now on I’m your friend, and it’s sorry I am for what has happened. Forgive me, Jean, and Tom too. He meant you no harm.”
“Say nothing, Paddy,” said Jean, with a smile. “I am well content to have a friend like you. But your cousin—I fear that I have hurt him. Tom, my friend, I was too rough and I am sorry. Forgive me.”
Tom Sullivan made no reply, but glared at his enemy like a wounded bear.
“Tom,” persisted Jean, “will you not let me drive you home? As to the contract, you shall have it. I will give it up.”
“Give it up, you damned thief? Yes, when I kill you. Forgive you? Yes, when you are in Hell!”
“But, Tom——”
“The curse o’ Crummle on you!” snarled Tom, turning his face away in bitterness of soul.