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The Marin Family Chronicles--Volume 4-Book 3

The Seekers by Charles O. Goulet

Chapter One -- Poor Prospects -- 1850-1852

Halifax, Nova Scotia, Tuesday, January 1, 1850

 Theodule Marin studied his wife and son: Angele looked thin and drawn--dark rings circled her brown eyes and her blonde hair hung dull and straggly about her gaunt cheeks; Simon, five years old, was lethargic and quiet, unlike a boy his age should be.  Theodule knew the cause of their lassitude: they were hungry.  It was a week since they had eaten a substantial meal; he was unable to provide adequate food for them in a month.
 The past three and a half years were difficult.  Work on the Halifax waterfront was scare and more so for him; many of the shipping companies and most of the stevedores resented that he was acquitted in the death of one of theirs. Although it was more than three years since the incident, he was not exonerated in their minds.
 Angele's eyes met his, and she smiled bleakly.  He knew she did not blame him for their plight, but he felt she should.  He was unable to sustain his family, and that rankled him.  He would look for some other kind of work; they could not go on like this.
 For several days he thought of striking out on his own, doing something entirely different.
 Angele brushed a limp strand of hair from her face as she struggled under the dim light of a guttering candle to mend Simon's only pair of well-worn trousers.
 "Angele, I've something to tell you."
 She raised her head quizzically.
 "I know I haven't been a good husband."  He glanced around the small room with its scant furnishings of a crude table, two stools, and a rough plank bunk that served as a bed for the three.
 She smiled. "My darling, that you're here is enough for me."    "No, you must listen to me.  Ange, we can't go on this way.  We'll die of starvation.  Look at you; you're nothing but skin and bones...and look at the boy.  He's lifeless...and sickly.  He'll die if he doesn't get more to eat."
 Angele nodded her head slowly.
 "I'm going to try fishing.  At least we'll have something to eat.  I'm going to talk to Emil Leblanc.  I hear he needs someone to help him...maybe even a partner."
 "But...Theo...what do you know about fishing?  How can you help Emil?  And besides fishing is dangerous...storms...leaky boats...long hours...days away from shore...and us.  Do you think you really want to do that?"
 "I must...I can't get enough work on the waterfront...I can't feed us.  I must try something else."
 "Have you spoken to Emil?"
 "No...but I shall.  I wanted to tell you first...before I did anything."
 She smiled wanly.  "And if Monsieur Leblanc doesn't need you?  What'll you do then?"
 He shrugged his shoulders. "He must.  I'll convince him."
 "But you've no money to bring to the partnership..."
 He clenched his fists.  "But I have two strong arms...and I want to work."
 "Then you must try."

St. Henri, Canada East, Tuesday, January 1, 1850

     Marcel gave the paternal blessing as was the custom in French-Canadian families on the first day of the new year.  His family gathered around the table enjoying the fruits of the previous year's harvest.  Marie, his oldest daughter and the overseer of his kitchen--with the help of Anne--who came from Montreal with her family-- prepared a feast that would do justice to a monarch. As they lingered over their desert--apple pie smothered with rich cream from their two milch cows--Marcel scrutinized his family.
  Marie--thirty-four this past December--was in the prime of her life, a dark-haired beauty with solemn brown eyes, a firm, determined mouth, and a sturdy body to match her resolute and reflective nature.  He knew she still harbored a dream of becoming a religious when she would no longer be needed a home.
 Next to her sat Anne, entirely the opposite of Marie in temperament: vivacious, fun-loving, an extrovert who wore her emotions in the open for all to see.  She would be thirty-three years old on the nineteenth of the month.  She, her husband--John Miller, a lawyer in Montreal--and their three children, John jr., soon to be twelve years old; Marie Jeanne, a nine-year old replica of her mother; and seven-year old Adelaide, who reminded him more and more of his deceased wife, came to join them for the festive season.
 Olivier, his oldest living son, who would soon be twenty-eight, sat beside his young wife, Celine, only nineteen yet married almost five years and with a two-year old son, Philip, an active happy child who brought a new spirit to the household as they lived in the same house.  Olivier and his younger brother, Marjoric, a robust twenty-four year old, who sometimes resented the authority of his older brother, ran the small farm.
 Marcel grimaced wryly.  He had made a decision about the farm.  He rapped the table with his spoon and smiled at the surprised look on most of the faces that turned to him inquisitively.
 "My children...I've an important announcement to make!"  He waited; silence enveloped the room like a mantle.  "I've come to an important decision that'll affect most of you...and I hope that you'll think it's a good one.  As you know..." He paused.  "The farm is not producing as it should...and it can hardly supply us with enough food to survive.  The soil is run down...there are too few acres..."
 "You're right, Papa!"  Majoric smiled at his father.  "And there's no more land around here."
 Marcel nodded. "Majoric...I hope you won't be angry at the decision I've taken."
 "Papa, I've made a decision also.  Since the farm is too small...and the land is no longer very good...I've decided to leave."
 A deeper hush fell over the group.  All eyes now turned to Majoric.
 Marie whispered, "Where'll you go?"
 Anne reiterated, "Yes, Majoric, where will you go?"
 Majoric smiled.  "I've heard that the government has opened the Eastern Townships to us, French-Canadians.  There's new land there that can be gotten...for a small price.  I plan to try my luck there."
 Marcel reached across and patted Majoric's left forearm.  "Son, I'm happy to hear that...because that fits in with my decision."  All eyes now turned back to Marcel.
 "Sorry, Papa...I didn't mean to interrupt...but I got carried away...excited.  What've you decided, Papa?"
 "I'm giving the farm to Olivier...to manage as he sees fit...but there are conditions."
 Olivier nodded and reached to take his wife's hand.  "I understand, Papa."
 "Your home must always be mine and Marie's.  We'll build a small house for us...so you and Celine can have this house to yourself."  Marcel turned to John Miller.  "John, you're witness to this deal.  Can you draw up the proper papers?"
 John Miller nodded.  "That will not be a problem."
 Majoric reached across the table and offered his large callused hand to his brother.  "Olivier, I'm glad for you and Celine.  I know the past year hasn't been easy for you...or Celine...and I haven't always been a facile partner."
 Marie spoke for the first time.  She cleared her throat gently and clasped her hands together.  "Celine, I want you to know..." Her voice caught.  "I want you to know...that I love you...as a sister.  You've been so...understanding...and helpful...but I now pass this kitchen...over to...you."  She covered her mouth with her left hand, bent her head, and sniffled quietly.
 "Pépére, does that mean that we can't visit you any more?"  Adelaide shook her dark curls and a look of disbelief covered her small round face.
 "No, my dear, I don't think so. I'll still live here...if not in this house."
 Olivier broke in.  "Adelaide...you can come to visit Pépére any time you want.  Nothing has changed."
 Marcel nodded, but he knew that much had changed.  A new generation was taking over.  A new generation with new visions, new ideas, new aspirations, and new philosophies.
 Olivier had new plans for the farm--new crops, new animals, new machines, new ways of doing things.  Celine would make the kitchen into her domain; she would put her personal stamp on it.  Although she and Marie worked well together, Marie always was in control, now that would pass to Celine.  Although Marcel had at first worried about Celine's immaturity and youth, he had to admit that she had become a perfect helpmate.
 He studied her now--not yet twenty--still beautiful, with pixie-like blond hair framing her small round face.   Her regular features, a pert nose, a firm but regular mouth with rosy lips gave her childlike aspect.  A petite, but well-developed figure even after the birth of a child added to the effect.  She was quiet, industrious, intelligent, and with drive and initiative.  He had to admit that Olivier chose wisely.
 He knew Marie liked her sister-in-law immensely and treated her like a younger sister.  They shared most womanly secrets.
 Marcel hoped that the new half-century would bring about the realization of all his family's dreams and aspirations.

Toronto, Canada West, Tuesday, January 1, 1850

 The grey light of dawn filtered through the small-paned glass window of the bedroom.  Andy winced, stretched, and yawned, as he moved the stump of his missing leg to a more comfortable position.  A new year was dawning and he assessed his life: he was thirty-eight years old, he had a dead-end job in a lawyer's office, he owned this small house, he had a beautiful loving wife, albeit she was an ex-slave woman, but he had no children.  His father, André, now seventy-two years old, was anxiously awaiting a grandchild, and his mother, Dorothy, sixty-six, was more eager than his father.
 He turned slowly toward Aby, his wife, who lay in quiet slumber beside him. In sleep, she was more beautiful than awake, her black, curly hair, which had grown out since their marriage, lay like a wreath around her head; her dark skin, a chocolate color, was smooth and velvety without a flaw over her entire body.  Her breasts were firm and well-rounded to neat, berry-like nipples.  He uncovered one and gazed at its perfect symmetry which sent shivers of excitement and lust throughout his body.
 It was not because their love-making was lacking or inhibited that prevented Aby from becoming pregnant.  Often he wondered if it was his fault that they were without children although Aby insisted that it was because she was sexually abused when she was a young slave girl.  Her master, Benson, used her as the play thing of his friends and often they made her perform acts that she found impossible to talk about.  Andy understood and never made any attempt to find out about these experiences.
 She stirred and turned toward him.  Her eyes opened slowly, and she smiled up at him.  "Happy new year, darling," she whispered as she stretched her arms to clasp his neck and draw him toward her.  Their lips met.  "My darling, I love you," she whispered huskily.
   He kissed her nose, each eye, and her forehead.  "You are the most beautiful woman in the world.  I love you too."
 She kissed the palm of his left hand and then ran it over her right breast till his fingers touched the firming nipple; he rolled it gently between his thumb and forefinger.  She sighed as she ran her hand along his body to his groin.  As his passion increased his lips sought hers again, now moist and feverish.  "Love me!" she whispered.  He needed no second bidding.

 He lay back, and she snuggled close to him, her body warm and moist.  "My darling, this year will be the best year ever.  You'll see."
 He wondered if she was hoping as he that they would have a child--a child to share their lives and to give them an incentive for the future.
 Ah, the future.  What would it bring?  Business was beginning to increase.  The province was developing at a phenomenal rate: people came in droves, land was settled and farmed at an increasing rate, immigrants came from Ireland, Scotland, England, and even America, new enterprises started almost every day--canals, roads, and even talk of a railway, grist mills, lumber mills, cheese factories, and lumber camps.  Yes, lumbering.  Maybe there was an opportunity there.  He learned that the American market was opening up to Canadian lumber, not the square timber trade, but the trade in deals--the planks and boards used in the construction trade--for buildings of all sorts, canals, bridges and ships.
 He turned quickly toward Aby.  "My darling, how would you like to leave Toronto?"
 Her eyes opened wide in surprise.  "What do you mean?"  Where did Andy want to go?  What did he want to do?  Did he plan to return to Sandwich?  Was he thinking of getting into the trading business again?
 "How would you like to move to Bytown on the Ottawa River?"
 "Why would we want to move there?"
 "Because its the center of lumbering and logging, because the forests are full of spruce and pine, because there's money to be made in lumber...and I want to make it!"
 "But what do you know about lumber?"
 "I know how to cut trees; I know you have to ship the logs to the mills; I know the deals have to be sold; and I know that there's good money to be made with little investment."
 "Do you think you can do that?"
 "I'll never know if I don't try."
 "You know, darling, I'll go anywhere you want me to go."  Her face brightened.  "Maybe a change will be good for us."

Toronto, Canada West, Wednesday, February 26, 1851

 Andy glanced around the small room.  A mixture of blacks and whites filled the chairs that were set up.  The chairman, a man he did not know, called the meeting to order.  Then he outlined the purpose of the gathering.
 Andy read about the meeting from posters scattered about the town.  He knew that the plan was to establish a society which would support the abolitionist movement in the United States and to provide relief to escaped slaves who made their way to Canada.
 Andy supported these aims, but he also had an ulterior motive for being at the meeting: he needed workmen to help him in the lumber woods on the upper Ottawa River, and since he could not employ enough whites he hoped that he might be able to hire free blacks as lumber jacks.
 Sitting off to the right of the table at the front of the room, he recognized George Brown, the publisher and editor of the Globe, a reform paper which sympathized with the plight of black slaves in the United States and escaped slaves in Canada.
 Andy agreed with many of Brown's pronouncements but he found him to be anti-French and anti-Catholic so Andy never made any attempt to be friendly with the man.
 At that moment, Brown turned and spotted Andy. He looked surprised but then nodded his head in greeting; Andy returned his nod.

 "Mr. Marin, it's a pleasure to see you support our cause."
 Andy nodded.  "Sir, you know that my wife is an ex-slave?"
 "Oh, yes.  But I also heard that you left town...for Bytown, er...Ottawa now."  Bytown was incorporated as Ottawa, the previous January 1.
 "Yes, I'm in the lumber trade."
 "Ah...and it's going well?"
 "Yes...and no.  I have the limits...but I'm finding it difficult to hire lumberjacks.  It seems that other interests are applying pressure to prevent me from hiring."
 "So?"
 "So I was hoping to find some lumberjacks among the fugitives coming in from the States.  That would help me...and them."
 "Commendable, Mr. Marin.  Maybe I could be of some help with my paper.  Would you like to run an ad?"
 "That sounds like a splendid idea, sir."

St. John, New Brunswick, April 17, 1851

 St. John was no longer as Theodule remembered it.  Yes, it was a long time ago since he had been there.  He knew that his mother died there--been killed in some kind of incident--but he could not recall the details.  He vaguely remembered his mother; he was very young when it happened. But he did recall that they were happier times.
 Today he was back, but his life had not improved much.  Over the past year he prospered and lost.  He and Emil Leblanc made a great team--they were good fishermen; Emil showed him the ropes, and he was an able student so they were successful until the Americans arrived on the banks and forced them to abandon their fishing area.
 When they decided to fight the Americans, disaster struck; Emil died of a heart attack after a confrontation with an American boat.  And again Theodule lost everything.  That was when he decided to try his luck in St. John.  Maybe St. John would be fortuitous for him.
 A dull overcast did not dampen the spirits of the large crowd that assembled before the ways of the James Smith shipyards.  The crowd was excited because a tall ship, a clipper of an innovative design, was about to be launched.  Theodule knew that the ship was to be called the Marco Polo.
 He held six year-old Simon's hand.  The boy was still small for his age, but always joyful.  He tugged at his father's hand.  "Papa, I can't see," he spoke quietly.
 Theodule boosted the boy to his shoulder.  "Now can you see?"
 Theodule could hardly see himself, but he could hear the thud of hammers, axes, and mauls as the workmen pounded at the stays that held the hull to the ways.
 A hush fell over the crowd as it waited in anticipation for the boat to start its slide into the water.  A creaking, cracking clatter electrified the crowd and a swishing sound quieted it as the hull gathered speed on the greased beams.  Surprise and astonishment held the crowd as the ship plunged at astonishing speed toward the grey waters of the bay.
 A loud eruption filled the air as the ship ploughed into the mud flats below the ways.  Theodule witnessed many a boat launched, but never saw one so eager to be on its way.  He felt it was a good omen for the new ship, and maybe for him.  Maybe his life would be launched into a new direction with a better future in sight.
 "Papa, that was exciting!
 "It was, son.  Maybe we can begin a new life here in St. John."

Fort Garry, Assiniboia, Wednesday, July 2, 1851

 Gerard Marin spotted his brother, Colbert, as he rode his black mustang toward the fort.  He waved his hand and hailed him.  "Colbert, I thought you were in St. Paul."
 Colbert reined in his horse and swung from the saddle.  "What the hell are you doing in there?"  He waved his hand toward the interior of the fort.
 Gerard turned toward the fort and grinned sheepishly.  Colbert knew that Gerard had little use for the Hudson's Bay Company and its policies.  He believed that the company exploited both the Indians and Metis and treated the territory as if it belonged to them. So Colbert was surprised to see him anywhere near the fort. "I now work for the Company."
 "You work for them?"  Colbert could not keep the shock and incredulity from his voice.  "I thought you hated them."
 "I do...but I must earn a living.  Farming is not good--drought, grasshoppers, floods...you know how it is.  You're doing something else as well.  How is business?"
 Colbert shook his head.  "Not too good.  Too much competition. And too much interference...from the Company...that's why I'm joining the hunt."
 Earlier that year, Colbert started cartering between the Colony and St. Paul to the south in the Territory of Minnesota in the United States. Steamboats brought trade goods up the Mississippi River on a regular basis so the town was a distribution center for the area as far north as Fort Garry.
 "That's too bad about hauling...but good luck in the hunt."
 "What about you?  Where will you be stationed?"
 "I'm off to Caledonia."  New Caledonia was a term used to indicate an administrative district of the Hudson's Bay Company west of the Rocky Mountains to the southern coast of the mainland.
 "Where?"
 "I'm not too sure.  Probably in Fort Victoria...or.  I don't know."
 "When to you leave?"
 "With the next brigade...within the week."
 "Good luck, brother...and may you prosper."
 Gerard did not miss the irony in Colbert's voice.  "Well, Collie, at least it's a job...and who knows?"   He abruptly changed the subject.  "Have you seen Kitty lately?"
 Since Kitty left him she was living with his younger brother, David, and as a result relations were strained between the two.  Colbert sought a reconciliation but nothing came of it and so for the past year he avoided Kitty.  He shook his head.  "Kitty doesn't want to see me.  She avoids me."  He shook his head again, in bewilderment.  He knew that she had a child shortly after she left him--a son, Frederick Archibald.  But he was not sure if the boy was his or his brother David's.  He still loved Kitty and still hoped that one day they might be reconciled.  Every time he was with a woman he dreamed of Kitty and their early years together.
 "I'm sorry I mentioned her,"  Gerard apologized.  "But I know how you feel about her...and I do hope that one day you'll get back together."
 "So do I"

Grand Coteau, Western Plains, Sunday, July 13, 1851

 Colbert hunkered down in the shallow pit, his musket lying on the mound of dirt before him.  He was in tight situations before, but this was the most nerve-wracking of all.
 When he decided to go on this buffalo hunt he knew that the Sioux were restive and spoiling for a fight with anyone who might enter their territory, but he doubted that they would attack a large party of armed buffalo hunters.
 Two days ago, Guillaume Cardinal, one of their scouts reported that a large war party of Sioux was headed their way obviously looking for a fight.  Wisely, Isidore Dumont, the hunt leader decided to prepare for an attack.  The carts were placed in a large circle, shafts of one interlocking with the wheels of the one before it.  The horses were corralled at the center of the circle in a rope enclosure and deep pits were dug around the perimeter of that for the protection of the women and children.  Another circle of trenches, just behind the ring of carts, provided cover for the riflemen and the defenders of the camp.  Colbert lay in one of these as he surveyed the situation.
 Dawn was breaking, a thin line of grey light over the northeastern horizon.  The Indians liked to attack in the half-light of the new day.  He listened intently for any sound of the enemy, but all he heard was the muted clamor of their own camp: the neighing of corralled horses, the whining of roaming dogs, the whimpering of frightened children, the hushing of worried women, the joking of intense men, and the clicking of readied weapons.
 Then he saw it--a thin line of horsemen etched against the skyline, too far away to be a target, but approaching.  Behind the mounted men another thin dark line closer to the ground--the warriors on foot, low to the ground.
 Someone shouted, "They're coming!"
 Activity stirred in the trenches as the defenders prepared to meet the attackers.  Colbert checked the priming of his musket; he was ready.  His powder horn lay beside him; his bag of balls was at his right elbow; his ram rod was planted handy to his right hand. He could fire and reload in seconds.
 As the file approached a wailing sound, low at first, but building, rolled toward the camp.  The horsemen slowly circled to the right as the riders surrounded the camp.  The wailing turned into shrieking as the onslaught became imminent.
 Colbert could now make out each individual; the shrieking, galloping horsemen; the slithering, crouching, yelling foot soldiers, yet they were still out of range of the rifles and muskets.
 Isidore Dumont moved from pit to pit, advising as he went, "Make every shot count!  Wait until you're sure you can hit your target!  Be patient!  Wait until I give the command to fire."
 Colbert knew that Isidore had divided his sixty-five defenders into three groups; group one would fire a volley and then reload; group two would wait until commanded and would fire a second volley; the third group would again wait until commanded and fire a third volley.  By this time the first group would be reloaded and ready to fire another volley.  Thus they would be able to keep up a continuous barrage against the attackers.
 The warriors were getting closer--almost within range.  Colbert took a deep breath to control his breathing and pounding heart.  When the attack came, he would forget everything in the heat of battle; his senses would return to normal, only sharper and more sensitive.
 A cry rolled from the ranks of the attackers.  The horsemen veered toward the camp and came galloping toward it.  Puffs of dust exploded from the short prairie grass.  The horses raced.  Their riders shouted and waved spears, tomahawks, bows and arrows, and an occasional musket or rifle.
 Colbert picked out a single rider and held his sights on the moving, dipping target.  He knew that he could easily hit the horse, but he was aiming at the man.
 His finger tightened on the trigger as he waited for the command to fire.
 The rider loomed larger and larger.  Still no command came.   What was Isidore waiting for?  Did he want them overwhelmed by the first wave?
 "Fire!" The command exploded down the line of carts.
 The explosion of twenty weapons reverberated through the still morning air.  The flashes of gunfire, the burst of white smoke, the cries of hit horses, and the occasional shriek of a warrior filled the morning stillness.
 Colbert kept his eyes on his target, waiting for his command to fire; he was in the second group.  The horse loomed large until he could see the whites of its large, wild eyes.  He decided to be certain and shifted his sights to the horse.  If the horse fell, the rider would be and easy target.
 "Fire!"
 Colbert pulled the trigger.  The musket pounded his shoulder.  The horse wavered, twisted sideways, falling.  The rider, now so close that Colbert could see the war paint on his face, pitched to the ground, somersaulted to his feet and ran in a zigzag back toward the hills from which he came.
 The horse flopped and shrieked and kicked in its death throes.
 Another volley swept the attackers who stopped.  Some already turned in retreat.
 As Colbert reloaded, he knew that this was only the first round.  The Sioux would soon be back in another wave.  And another wave.  And another wave.

Fort Victoria, Columbia District, November 14, 1851

 Gerard lifted his glass in salute.  "To the new governor."  A hint of derision filled his voice.  Since he had arrived at Fort Victoria, many things happened.
 Almost on his arrival he quarreled with the Company over his pay and so quit their employ. He found James Douglas too authoritarian and rigid in his treatment of the Indians and his own employees.
 The island was made a crown colony but leased it to the Hudson's Bay Company for ten years.  Although they sent out a governor, Richard Blanshard, he found his position impossible and so resigned.  The British government then appointed the chief Company agent on the island, James Douglas, as the new governor.
 Gerard did not think much of the choice.  Just as he did not think much of the Company.
 Alfred Janvier, his companion, another Metis from Assiniboia smiled and lifted his glass.  He clinked it and drained it. "At least the rum is good!"
 "Long live the governor!"  Gerard drained his glass.

Red River, Hudson's Bay Company Territory, Tuesday, April 20, 1852

 Colbert sat his horse and looked over the expanse of grey water that swirled and gurgled beneath his feet.  Never had he seen the Red River so high.  As far as he could see the whirling waters moved northward carrying with it debris of all sorts; logs--some from the flooded barns and homes of settlers, trees and shrubs, lumps of earth and grass, and occasionally the body of a drowned animal, domestic or wild.
 He heard a cry.  He searched for it.  It sounded like someone in trouble, desperate.  He scanned the waters.  But he could see nothing that indicated a person in trouble.
 Maybe he was mistaken.  Then it came again.  A desperate, anguished cry of someone in distress--and it came from somewhere in the eddying waters.
 He squinted.  Where had the cry come from?  He scanned the swift moving stream.  Then he spotted it--a dark speck, far out in the center of the current--being carried along at a fast pace.
 Someone appeared to be clinging to a log.  He gigged his horse forward parallel to the flowing water.  The cry came again.  It sounded like a child--or a woman.  He was not sure which.
 Could he help?  He was not sure of that either.  Would his horse be able to fight the current and swim toward the endangered person?  He had to try.  He could not leave the person to drown.
 He decided he must move further downstream and intercept the person as he or she floated by.  He sought high ground and forced his mount into a gallop.
 He mounted a rise and then turned his horse toward the river.  Without hesitation his pony entered the cold water, and Colbert slid from the saddle his right hand on the saddle horn as he swam along side.
 He spotted the person on the log and headed toward it.  His horse seemed to know what he wanted and followed his directions.  The cold swirling, silty water took his breath away, and he gasped as he strained to help the horse.
 Slowly they moved to the center of the stream, and as the current caught them, the floundering individual approached quickly-- too quickly. If he did not hurry, they would miss their quarry. Now Colbert could tell that the person clung to an overturned canoe.
 "Hang on!" he shouted.  "I'm coming.  Save your energy.  Wait!"
 As he approached, the person lay across the bottom of the canoe limply.
 He turned his horse parallel to the canoe facing upstream.  As the canoe approached swiftly, narrowing the gap between them at an astounding speed, Colbert knew that he had to grab the person at the first attempt or he would not be able to effect a rescue.
 "Get ready!" he shouted. "Grab me as I grab you as we pass you!"
 The limp figure stirred and raised an arm.  They were almost together but not quite within reach.  Colbert stretched as far as he could.  It would be close.
 "Stretch your arm out!  Quickly!"
 The arm reached further.  Colbert reached further.  Their finger tips touched.  He lunged.  He caught the wrist and yanked.  The person hurtled toward him striking him in the chest.  He could feel his fingers slipping from the pommel.  He struggled desperately to keep his grasp of both the saddle and person.
 The current hurled the horse toward him and he secured his grip.  But his arm was quivering with cold and fatigue.  He was not sure that he could hold on.
 The struggling person was grasping at him, clinging to his shirt, moving toward his body.  He let the wrist go and swung his arm to encircle the waist.
 He looked into the face of the person he held.  "My God!  Kitty, what were you doing out there?"
 Her arms encircle his neck.  She kissed him.  "I love you, Colbert," she whispered.

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