COMING TO THEIR OWN
CHAPTER I
CHRISTMAS EVE IN A LUMBER CAMP
It was due to a mysterious dispensation of Providence, and a good deal
to Leslie Graeme, that I found myself in the heart of the Selkirks for
my Christmas Eve as the year 1882 was dying. It had been my plan to
spend my Christmas far away in Toronto, with such Bohemian and boon
companions as could be found in that cosmopolitan and kindly city. But
Leslie Graeme changed all that, for, discovering me in the village of
Black Rock, with my traps all packed, waiting for the stage to start
for the Landing, thirty miles away, he bore down upon me with resistless
force, and I found myself recovering from my surprise only after we had
gone in his lumber sleigh some six miles on our way to his camp up in
the mountains. I was surprised and much delighted, though I would not
allow him to think so, to find that his old-time power over me was still
there. He could always in the old ‘Varsity days--dear, wild days--make
me do what he liked. He was so handsome and so reckless, brilliant in
his class-work, and the prince of half-backs on the Rugby field, and
with such power of fascination, as would ‘extract the heart out of a
wheelbarrow,’ as Barney Lundy used to say. And thus it was that I
found myself just three weeks later--I was to have spent two or three
days,--on the afternoon of the 24th of December, standing in Graeme’s
Lumber Camp No. 2, wondering at myself. But I did not regret my changed
plans, for in those three weeks I had raided a cinnamon bear’s den and
had wakened up a grizzly--But I shall let the grizzly finish the tale;
he probably sees more humour in it than I.
The camp stood in a little clearing, and consisted of a group of three
long, low shanties with smaller shacks near them, all built of heavy,
unhewn logs, with door and window in each. The grub camp, with cook-shed
attached, stood in the middle of the clearing; at a little distance was
the sleeping-camp with the office built against it, and about a hundred
yards away on the other side of the clearing stood the stables, and near
them the smiddy. The mountains rose grandly on every side, throwing up
their great peaks into the sky. The clearing in which the camp stood was
hewn out of a dense pine forest that filled the valley and climbed half
way up the mountain-sides, and then frayed out in scattered and stunted
trees.
It was one of those wonderful Canadian winter days, bright, and with a
touch of sharpness in the air that did not chill, but warmed the blood
like draughts of wine. The men were up in the woods, and the shrill
scream of the blue jay flashing across the open, the impudent chatter
of the red squirrel from the top of the grub camp, and the pert chirp of
the whisky-jack, hopping about on the rubbish-heap, with the long, lone
cry of the wolf far down the valley, only made the silence felt the
more.
As I stood drinking in with all my soul the glorious beauty and the
silence of mountain and forest, with the Christmas feeling stealing into
me, Graeme came out from his office, and, catching sight of me, called
out, ‘Glorious Christmas weather, old chap!’ And then, coming nearer,
‘Must you go to-morrow?’
‘I fear so,’ I replied, knowing well that the Christmas feeling was on
him too.
‘I wish I were going with you,’ he said quietly.
I turned eagerly to persuade him, but at the look of suffering in his
face the words died at my lips, for we both were thinking of the awful
night of horror when all his bright, brilliant life crashed down about
him in black ruin and shame. I could only throw my arm over his shoulder
and stand silent beside him. A sudden jingle of bells roused him, and,
giving himself a little shake, he exclaimed, ‘There are the boys coming
home.’
Soon the camp was filled with men talking, laughing, chaffing, like
light-hearted boys.
‘They are a little wild to-night,’ said Graeme; ‘and to morrow they’ll
paint Black Rock red.’
Before many minutes had gone, the last teamster was ‘washed up,’ and
all were standing about waiting impatiently for the cook’s signal--the
supper to-night was to be ‘something of a feed’--when the sound of
bells drew their attention to a light sleigh drawn by a buckskin broncho
coming down the hillside at a great pace.
‘The preacher, I’ll bet, by his driving,’ said one of the men.
‘Bedad, and it’s him has the foine nose for turkey!’ said Blaney, a
good-natured, jovial Irishman.
‘Yes, or for pay-day, more like,’ said Keefe, a black-browed, villainous
fellow-countryman of Blaney’s, and, strange to say, his great friend.
Big Sandy M’Naughton, a Canadian Highlander from Glengarry, rose up in
wrath. ‘Bill Keefe,’ said he, with deliberate emphasis, ‘you’ll just
keep your dirty tongue off the minister; and as for your pay, it’s
little he sees of it, or any one else, except Mike Slavin, when you’re
too dry to wait for some one to treat you, or perhaps Father Ryan, when
the fear of hell-fire is on to you.’
The men stood amazed at Sandy’s sudden anger and length of speech.
‘Bon; dat’s good for you, my bully boy,’ said Baptiste, a wiry little
French-Canadian, Sandy’s sworn ally and devoted admirer ever since the
day when the big Scotsman, under great provocation, had knocked him
clean off the dump into the river and then jumped in for him.
It was not till afterwards I learned the cause of Sandy’s sudden wrath
which urged him to such unwonted length of speech. It was not simply
that the Presbyterian blood carried with it reverence for the
minister and contempt for Papists and Fenians, but that he had a vivid
remembrance of how, only a month ago, the minister had got him out of
Mike Slavin’s saloon and out the clutches of Keefe and Slavin and their
gang of bloodsuckers.
Keefe started up with a curse. Baptiste sprang to Sandy’s side, slapped
him on the back, and called out, ‘You keel him, I’ll hit (eat) him up,
me.’
It looked as if there might be a fight, when a harsh voice said in a
low, savage tone, ‘Stop your row, you blank fools; settle it, if you
want to, somewhere else.’ I turned, and was amazed to see old man
Nelson, who was very seldom moved to speech.
There was a look of scorn on his hard, iron-grey face, and of such
settled fierceness as made me quite believe the tales I had heard of his
deadly fights in the mines at the coast. Before any reply could be
made, the minister drove up and called out in a cheery voice, ‘Merry
Christmas, boys! Hello, Sandy! Comment ca va, Baptiste? How do you do,
Mr. Graeme?’
‘First rate. Let me introduce my friend, Mr. Connor, sometime medical
student, now artist, hunter, and tramp at large, but not a bad sort.’
‘A man to be envied,’ said the minister, smiling. ‘I am glad to know any
friend of Mr. Graeme’s.’
I liked Mr. Craig from the first. He had good eyes that looked straight
out at you, a clean-cut, strong face well set on his shoulders, and
altogether an upstanding, manly bearing. He insisted on going with Sandy
to the stables to see Dandy, his broncho, put up.
‘Decent fellow,’ said Graeme; ‘but though he is good enough to his
broncho, it is Sandy that’s in his mind now.’
‘Does he come out often? I mean, are you part of his parish, so to
speak?’
‘I have no doubt he thinks so; and I’m blowed if he doesn’t make the
Presbyterians of us think so too.’ And he added after a pause, ‘A dandy
lot of parishioners we are for any man. There’s Sandy, now, he would
knock Keefe’s head off as a kind of religious exercise; but to-morrow
Keefe will be sober, and Sandy will be drunk as a lord, and the drunker
he is the better Presbyterian he’ll be; to the preacher’s disgust.’ Then
after another pause he added bitterly, ‘But it is not for me to throw
rocks at Sandy; I am not the same kind of fool, but I am a fool of
several other sorts.’
Then the cook came out and beat a tattoo on the bottom of a dish-pan.
Baptiste answered with a yell: but though keenly hungry, no man would
demean himself to do other than walk with apparent reluctance to his
place at the table. At the further end of the camp was a big fireplace,
and from the door to the fireplace extended the long board tables,
covered with platters of turkey not too scientifically carved, dishes
of potatoes, bowls of apple sauce, plates of butter, pies, and smaller
dishes distributed at regular intervals. Two lanterns hanging from the
roof, and a row of candles stuck into the wall on either side by means
of slit sticks, cast a dim, weird light over the scene.
There was a moment’s silence, and at a nod from Graeme Mr. Craig rose
and said, ‘I don’t know how you feel about it, men, but to me this looks
good enough to be thankful for.’
‘Fire ahead, sir,’ called out a voice quite respectfully, and the
minister bent his head and said-- ‘For Christ the Lord who came to save
us, for all the love and goodness we have known, and for these Thy gifts
to us this Christmas night, our Father, make us thankful. Amen.’
‘Bon, dat’s fuss rate,’ said Baptiste. ‘Seems lak dat’s make me hit
(eat) more better for sure,’ and then no word was spoken for quarter of
an hour. The occasion was far too solemn and moments too precious for
anything so empty as words. But when the white piles of bread and the
brown piles of turkey had for a second time vanished, and after the
last pie had disappeared, there came a pause and hush of expectancy,
whereupon the cook and cookee, each bearing aloft a huge, blazing
pudding, came forth.
‘Hooray!’ yelled Blaney, ‘up wid yez!’ and grabbing the cook by the
shoulders from behind, he faced him about.
Mr. Craig was the first to respond, and seizing the cookee in the same
way, called out, ‘Squad, fall in! quick march!’ In a moment every man
was in the procession.
‘Strike up, Batchees, ye little angel!’ shouted Blaney, the appellation
a concession to the minister’s presence; and away went Baptiste in a
rollicking French song with the English chorus--
‘Then blow, ye winds, in the morning,
Blow, ye winds, ay oh!
Blow, ye winds, in the morning,
Blow, blow, blow.’
And at each ‘blow’ every boot came down with a thump on the plank floor
that shook the solid roof. After the second round, Mr. Craig jumped upon
the bench, and called out--
‘Three cheers for Billy the cook!’
In the silence following the cheers Baptiste was heard to say, ‘Bon!
dat’s mak me feel lak hit dat puddin’ all hup mesef, me.’
‘Hear till the little baste!’ said Blaney in disgust.
‘Batchees,’ remonstrated Sandy gravely, ‘ye’ve more stomach than
manners.’
‘Fu sure! but de more stomach dat’s more better for dis puddin’,’
replied the little Frenchman cheerfully.
After a time the tables were cleared and pushed back to the wall, and
pipes were produced. In all attitudes suggestive of comfort the men
disposed themselves in a wide circle about the fire, which now roared
and crackled up the great wooden chimney hanging from the roof. The
lumberman’s hour of bliss had arrived. Even old man Nelson looked a
shade less melancholy than usual as he sat alone, well away from the
fire, smoking steadily and silently. When the second pipes were well
a-going, one of the men took down a violin from the wall and handed
it to Lachlan Campbell. There were two brothers Campbell just out from
Argyll, typical Highlanders: Lachlan, dark, silent, melancholy, with the
face of a mystic, and Angus, red-haired, quick, impulsive, and devoted
to his brother, a devotion he thought proper to cover under biting,
sarcastic speech.
Lachlan, after much protestation, interspersed with gibes from his
brother, took the violin, and, in response to the call from all sides,
struck up ‘Lord Macdonald’s Reel.’ In a moment the floor was filled with
dancers, whooping and cracking their fingers in the wildest manner. Then
Baptiste did the ‘Red River Jig,’ a most intricate and difficult series
of steps, the men keeping time to the music with hands and feet.
When the jig was finished, Sandy called for ‘Lochaber No More’; but
Campbell said, ‘No, no! I cannot play that to-night. Mr. Craig will
play.’
Craig took the violin, and at the first note I knew he was no ordinary
player. I did not recognise the music, but it was soft and thrilling,
and got in by the heart, till every one was thinking his tenderest and
saddest thoughts.
After he had played two or three exquisite bits, he gave Campbell his
violin, saying, ‘Now, “Lochaber,” Lachlan.’
Without a word Lachlan began, not ‘Lochaber’--he was not ready for that
yet--but ‘The Flowers o’ the Forest,’ and from that wandered through
‘Auld Robin Gray’ and ‘The Land o’ the Leal,’ and so got at last to that
most soul-subduing of Scottish laments, ‘Lochaber No More.’ At the first
strain, his brother, who had thrown himself on some blankets behind the
fire, turned over on his face, feigning sleep. Sandy M’Naughton took
his pipe out of his mouth, and sat up straight and stiff, staring into
vacancy, and Graeme, beyond the fire, drew a short, sharp breath. We
had often sat, Graeme and I, in our student-days, in the drawing-room at
home, listening to his father wailing out ‘Lochaber’ upon the pipes, and
I well knew that the awful minor strains were now eating their way into
his soul.
Over and over again the Highlander played his lament. He had long since
forgotten us, and was seeing visions of the hills and lochs and glens of
his far-away native land, and making us, too, see strange things out
of the dim past. I glanced at old man Nelson, and was startled at the
eager, almost piteous, look in his eyes, and I wished Campbell would
stop. Mr. Craig caught my eye, and, stepping over to Campbell, held out
his hand for the violin. Lingeringly and lovingly the Highlander drew
out the last strain, and silently gave the minister his instrument.
Without a moment’s pause, and while the spell of ‘Lochaber’ was still
upon us, the minister, with exquisite skill, fell into the refrain of
that simple and beautiful camp-meeting hymn, ‘The Sweet By and By.’
After playing the verse through once, he sang softly the refrain. After
the first verse, the men joined in the chorus; at first timidly, but
by the time the third verse was reached they were shouting with throats
full open, ‘We shall meet on that beautiful shore.’ When I looked at
Nelson the eager light had gone out of his eyes, and in its place was
kind of determined hopelessness, as if in this new music he had no part.
After the voices had ceased, Mr. Craig played again the refrain, more
and more softly and slowly; then laying the violin on Campbell’s knees,
he drew from his pocket his little Bible, and said--
‘Men, with Mr. Graeme’s permission, I want to read you something this
Christmas Eve. You will all have heard it before, but you will like it
none the less for that.’
His voice was soft, but clear and penetrating, as he read the eternal
story of the angels and the shepherds and the Babe. And as he read, a
slight motion of the hand or a glance of an eye made us see, as he
was seeing, that whole radiant drama. The wonder, the timid joy,
the tenderness, the mystery of it all, were borne in upon us with
overpowering effect. He closed the book, and in the same low, clear
voice went on to tell us how, in his home years ago, he used to stand on
Christmas Eve listening in thrilling delight to his mother telling him
the story, and how she used to make him see the shepherds and hear the
sheep bleating near by, and how the sudden burst of glory used to make
his heart jump.
‘I used to be a little afraid of the angels, because a boy told me they
were ghosts; but my mother told me better, and I didn’t fear them any
more. And the Baby, the dear little Baby--we all love a baby.’ There was
a quick, dry sob; it was from Nelson. ‘I used to peek through under
to see the little one in the straw, and wonder what things swaddling
clothes were. Oh, it was all so real and so beautiful!’ He paused, and I
could hear the men breathing.
‘But one Christmas Eve,’ he went on, in a lower, sweeter tone, ‘there
was no one to tell me the story, and I grew to forget it, and went away
to college, and learned to think that it was only a child’s tale and was
not for men. Then bad days came to me and worse, and I began to lose my
grip of myself, of life, of hope, of goodness, till one black Christmas,
in the slums of a faraway city, when I had given up all, and the devil’s
arms were about me, I heard the story again. And as I listened, with
a bitter ache in my heart, for I had put it all behind me, I suddenly
found myself peeking under the shepherds’ arms with a child’s wonder at
the Baby in the straw. Then it came over me like great waves, that His
name was Jesus, because it was He that should save men from their sins.
Save! Save! The waves kept beating upon my ears, and before I knew, I
had called out, “Oh! can He save me?” It was in a little mission meeting
on one of the side streets, and they seemed to be used to that sort of
thing there, for no one was surprised; and a young fellow leaned across
the aisle to me and said, “Why! you just bet He can!” His surprise that
I should doubt, his bright face and confident tone, gave me hope
that perhaps it might be so. I held to that hope with all my soul,
and’--stretching up his arms, and with a quick glow in his face and
a little break in his voice, ‘He hasn’t failed me yet; not once, not
once!’
He stopped quite short, and I felt a good deal like making a fool of
myself, for in those days I had not made up my mind about these things.
Graeme, poor old chap, was gazing at him with a sad yearning in his dark
eyes; big Sandy was sitting very stiff, and staring harder than ever
into the fire; Baptiste was trembling with excitement; Blaney was openly
wiping the tears away. But the face that held my eyes was that of
old man Nelson. It was white, fierce, hungry-looking, his sunken eyes
burning, his lips parted as if to cry.
The minister went on. ‘I didn’t mean to tell you this, men, it all came
over me with a rush; but it is true, every word, and not a word will I
take back. And, what’s more, I can tell you this, what He did for me
He can do for any man, and it doesn’t make any difference what’s behind
him, and’--leaning slightly forward, and with a little thrill of pathos
vibrating in his voice--‘O boys, why don’t you give Him a chance at you?
Without Him you’ll never be the men you want to be, and you’ll never get
the better of that that’s keeping some of you now from going back home.
You know you’ll never go back till you’re the men you want to be.’
Then, lifting up his face and throwing back his head, he said, as if to
himself, ‘Jesus! He shall save His people from their sins,’ and then,
‘Let us pray.’
Graeme leaned forward with his face in his hands; Baptiste and Blaney
dropped on their knees; Sandy, the Campbells, and some others, stood up.
Old man Nelson held his eyes steadily on the minister.
Only once before had I seen that look on a human face. A young fellow
had broken through the ice on the river at home, and as the black water
was dragging his fingers one by one from the slippery edges, there came
over his face that same look. I used to wake up for many a night after
in a sweat of horror, seeing the white face with its parting lips, and
its piteous, dumb appeal, and the black water slowly sucking it down.
Nelson’s face brought it all back; but during the prayer the face
changed, and seemed to settle into resolve of some sort, stern, almost
gloomy, as of a man with his last chance before him.
After the prayer Mr. Craig invited the men to a Christmas dinner next
day in Black Rock. ‘And because you are an independent lot, we’ll charge
you half a dollar for dinner and the evening show.’ Then leaving a
bundle of magazines and illustrated papers on the table--a godsend to
the men--he said good-bye and went out.
I was to go with the minister, so I jumped into the sleigh first, and
waited while he said good-bye to Graeme, who had been hard hit by the
whole service, and seemed to want to say something. I heard Mr. Craig
say cheerfully and confidently, ‘It’s a true bill: try Him.’
Sandy, who had been steadying Dandy while that interesting broncho was
attempting with great success to balance himself on his hind legs, came
to say good-bye. ‘Come and see me first thing, Sandy.’
‘Ay! I know; I’ll see ye, Mr. Craig,’ said Sandy earnestly, as Dandy
dashed off at a full gallop across the clearing and over the bridge,
steadying down when he reached the hill.
‘Steady, you idiot!’
This was to Dandy, who had taken a sudden side spring into the deep
snow, almost upsetting us. A man stepped out from the shadow. It was old
man Nelson. He came straight to the sleigh, and, ignoring my presence
completely, said--
‘Mr. Craig, are you dead sure of this? Will it work?’
‘Do you mean,’ said Craig, taking him up promptly, ‘can Jesus Christ
save you from your sins and make a man of you?’
The old man nodded, keeping his hungry eyes on the other’s face.
‘Well, here’s His message to you: “The Son of Man is come to seek and to
save that which was lost.”’
‘To me? To me?’ said the old man eagerly.
‘Listen; this, too, is His Word: “Him that cometh unto Me I will in no
wise cast out.” That’s for you, for here you are, coming.’
‘You don’t know me, Mr. Craig. I left my baby fifteen years ago
because--’
‘Stop!’ said the minister. ‘Don’t tell me, at least not to-night;
perhaps never. Tell Him who knows it all now, and who never betrays a
secret. Have it out with Him. Don’t be afraid to trust Him.’
Nelson looked at him, with his face quivering, and said in a husky
voice, ‘If this is no good, it’s hell for me.’
‘If it is no good,’ replied Craig, almost sternly, ‘it’s hell for all of
us.’
The old man straightened himself up, looked up at the stars, then back
at Mr. Craig, then at me, and, drawing a deep breath, said, ‘I’ll try
Him.’ As he was turning away the minister touched him on the arm, and
said quietly, ‘Keep an eye on Sandy to-morrow.’
Nelson nodded, and we went on; but before we took the next turn I looked
back and saw what brought a lump into my throat. It was old man Nelson
on his knees in the snow, with his hands spread upward to the stars,
and I wondered if there was any One above the stars, and nearer than the
stars, who could see. And then the trees hid him from my sight
CHAPTER II
THE BLACK ROCK CHRISTMAS
Many strange Christmas Days have I seen, but that wild Black Rock
Christmas stands out strangest of all. While I was revelling in my
delicious second morning sleep, just awake enough to enjoy it, Mr. Craig
came abruptly, announcing breakfast and adding, ‘Hope you are in good
shape, for we have our work before us this day.’
‘Hello!’ I replied, still half asleep, and anxious to hide from the
minister that I was trying to gain a few more moments of snoozing
delight, ‘what’s abroad?’.
‘The devil,’ he answered shortly, and with such emphasis that I sat bolt
upright, looking anxiously about.
‘Oh! no need for alarm. He’s not after you particularly--at least not
to-day,’ said Craig, with a shadow of a smile. ‘But he is going about in
good style, I can tell you.’
By this time I was quite awake. ‘Well, what particular style does His
Majesty affect this morning?’
He pulled out a showbill. ‘Peculiarly gaudy and effective, is it not?’
The items announced were sufficiently attractive. The ‘Frisco Opera
Company were to produce the ‘screaming farce,’ ‘The Gay and Giddy Dude’;
after which there was to be a ‘Grand Ball,’ during which the ‘Kalifornia
Female Kickers’ were to do some fancy figures; the whole to be followed
by a ‘big supper’ with ‘two free drinks to every man and one to the
lady,’ and all for the insignificant sum of two dollars.
‘Can’t you go one better?’ I said.
He looked inquiringly and a little disgustedly at me.
‘What can you do against free drinks and a dance, not to speak of the
“High Kickers”?’ he groaned.
‘No!’ he continued; ‘it’s a clean beat for us today. The miners and
lumbermen will have in their pockets ten thousand dollars, and every
dollar burning a hole; and Slavin and his gang will get most of it.
But,’ he added, ‘you must have breakfast. You’ll find a tub in the
kitchen; don’t be afraid to splash. It is the best I have to offer you.’
The tub sounded inviting, and before many minutes had passed I was in
a delightful glow, the effect of cold water and a rough towel, and that
consciousness of virtue that comes to a man who has had courage to face
his cold bath on a winter morning.
The breakfast was laid with fine taste. A diminutive pine-tree, in a pot
hung round with wintergreen, stood in the centre of the table.
‘Well, now, this looks good; porridge, beefsteak, potatoes, toast, and
marmalade.’
‘I hope you will enjoy it all.’
There was not much talk over our meal. Mr. Craig was evidently
preoccupied, and as blue as his politeness would allow him. Slavin’s
victory weighed upon his spirits. Finally he burst out, ‘Look here! I
can’t, I won’t stand it; something must be done. Last Christmas this
town was for two weeks, as one of the miners said, “a little suburb of
hell.” It was something too awful. And at the end of it all one young
fellow was found dead in his shack, and twenty or more crawled back to
the camps, leaving their three months’ pay with Slavin and his suckers.
‘I won’t stand it, I say.’ He turned fiercely on me. ‘What’s to be
done?’
This rather took me aback, for I had troubled myself with nothing of
this sort in my life before, being fully occupied in keeping myself out
of difficulty, and allowing others the same privilege. So I ventured
the consolation that he had done his part, and that a spree more or
less would not make much difference to these men. But the next moment
I wished I had been slower in speech, for he swiftly faced me, and his
words came like a torrent.
‘God forgive you that heartless word! Do you know--? But no; you don’t
know what you are saying. You don’t know that these men have been
clambering for dear life out of a fearful pit for three months past, and
doing good climbing too, poor chaps. You don’t think that some of them
have wives, most of them mothers and sisters, in the east or across the
sea, for whose sake they are slaving here; the miners hoping to save
enough to bring their families to this homeless place, the rest to make
enough to go back with credit. Why, there’s Nixon, miner, splendid chap;
has been here for two years, and drawing the highest pay. Twice he has
been in sight of his heaven, for he can’t speak of his wife and babies
without breaking up, and twice that slick son of the devil--that’s
Scripture, mind you--Slavin, got him, and “rolled” him, as the boys say.
He went back to the mines broken in body and in heart. He says this is
his third and last chance. If Slavin gets him, his wife and babies will
never see him on earth or in heaven. There is Sandy, too, and the rest.
And,’ he added, in a lower tone, and with the curious little thrill of
pathos in his voice, ‘this is the day the Saviour came to the world.’
He paused, and then with a little sad smile, ‘But I don’t want to abuse
you.’
‘Do, I enjoy it, I’m a beast, a selfish beast’; for somehow his intense,
blazing earnestness made me feel uncomfortably small.
‘What have we to offer?’ I demanded.
‘Wait till I have got these things cleared away, and my housekeeping
done.’
I pressed my services upon him, somewhat feebly, I own, for I can’t bear
dishwater; but he rejected my offer.
‘I don’t like trusting my china to the hands of a tender-foot.’
‘Quite right, though your china would prove an excellent means of
defence at long range.’ It was delf, a quarter of an inch thick. So I
smoked while he washed up, swept, dusted, and arranged the room.
After the room was ordered to his taste, we proceeded to hold council.
He could offer dinner, magic lantern, music. ‘We can fill in time for
two hours, but,’ he added gloomily, ‘we can’t beat the dance and the
“High Kickers.”’
‘Have you nothing new or startling?’
He shook his head.
‘No kind of show? Dog show? Snake charmer?’
‘Slavin has a monopoly of the snakes.’
Then he added hesitatingly, ‘There was an old Punch-and-Judy chap here
last year, but he died. Whisky again.’
‘What happened to his show?’
‘The Black Rock Hotel man took it for board and whisky bill. He has it
still, I suppose.’
I did not much relish the business; but I hated to see him beaten, so
I ventured, ‘I have run a Punch and Judy in an amateur way at the
‘Varsity.’
He sprang to his feet with a yell.
‘You have! you mean to say it? We’ve got them! We’ve beaten them!’ He
had an extraordinary way of taking your help for granted. ‘The miner
chaps, mostly English and Welsh, went mad over the poor old showman, and
made him so wealthy that in sheer gratitude he drank himself to death.’
He walked up and down in high excitement and in such evident delight
that I felt pledged to my best effort.
‘Well,’ I said, ‘first the poster. We must beat them in that.’
He brought me large sheets of brown paper, and after two hours’ hard
work I had half a dozen pictorial showbills done in gorgeous colours and
striking designs. They were good, if I do say it myself.
The turkey, the magic lantern, the Punch and Judy show were all there,
the last with a crowd before it in gaping delight. A few explanatory
words were thrown in, emphasising the highly artistic nature of the
Punch and Judy entertainment.
Craig was delighted, and proceeded to perfect his plans. He had some
half a dozen young men, four young ladies, and eight or ten matrons,
upon whom he could depend for help. These he organised into a vigilance
committee charged with the duty of preventing miners and lumbermen from
getting away to Slavin’s. ‘The critical moments will be immediately
before and after dinner, and then again after the show is over,’ he
explained. ‘The first two crises must be left to the care of Punch and
Judy, and as for the last, I am not yet sure what shall be done’; but
I saw he had something in his head, for he added, ‘I shall see Mrs.
Mavor.’
‘Who is Mrs. Mavor?’ I asked. But he made no reply. He was a born
fighter, and he put the fighting spirit into us all. We were bound to
win.
The sports were to begin at two o’clock. By lunch-time everything was in
readiness. After lunch I was having a quiet smoke in Craig’s shack when
in he rushed, saying--
‘The battle will be lost before it is fought. If we lose Quatre Bras, we
shall never get to Waterloo.’
‘What’s up?’
‘Slavin, just now. The miners are coming in, and he will have them in
tow in half an hour.’
He looked at me appealingly. I knew what he wanted.
‘All right; I suppose I must, but it is an awful bore that a man can’t
have a quiet smoke.’
‘You’re not half a bad fellow,’ he replied, smiling. ‘I shall get the
ladies to furnish coffee inside the booth. You furnish them intellectual
nourishment in front with dear old Punch and Judy.’
He sent a boy with a bell round the village announcing, ‘Punch, and
Judy in front of the Christmas booth beside the church’; and for
three-quarters of an hour I shrieked and sweated in that awful little
pen. But it was almost worth it to hear the shouts of approval and
laughter that greeted my performance. It was cold work standing about,
so that the crowd was quite ready to respond when Punch, after being
duly hanged, came forward and invited all into the booth for the hot
coffee which Judy had ordered.
In they trooped, and Quatre Bras was won.
No sooner were the miners safely engaged with their coffee than I heard
a great noise of bells and of men shouting; and on reaching the street
I saw that the men from the lumber camp were coming in. Two immense
sleighs, decorated with ribbons and spruce boughs, each drawn by a
four-horse team gaily adorned, filled with some fifty men, singing and
shouting with all their might, were coming down the hill road at full
gallop. Round the corner they swung, dashed at full speed across the
bridge and down the street, and pulled up after they had made the
circuit of a block, to the great admiration of the onlookers. Among
others Slavin sauntered up good-naturedly, making himself agreeable to
Sandy and those who were helping to unhitch his team.
‘Oh, you need not take trouble with me or my team, Mike Slavin. Batchees
and me and the boys can look after them fine,’ said Sandy coolly.
This rejecting of hospitality was perfectly understood by Slavin and by
all.
‘Dat’s too bad, heh?’ said Baptiste wickedly; ‘and, Sandy, he’s got
good money on his pocket for sure, too.’ The boys laughed, and Slavin,
joining in, turned away with Keele and Blaney; but by the look in his
eye I knew he was playing ‘Br’er Rabbit,’ and lying low.
Mr. Craig just then came up, ‘Hello, boys! too late for Punch and Judy,
but just in time for hot coffee and doughnuts.’
‘Bon; dat’s fuss rate,’ said Baptiste heartily; ‘where you keep him?’
‘Up in the tent next the church there. The miners are all in.’
‘Ah, dat so? Dat’s bad news for the shantymen, heh, Sandy?’ said the
little Frenchman dolefully.
‘There was a clothes-basket full of doughnuts and a boiler of coffee
left as I passed just now,’ said Craig encouragingly.
‘Allons, mes garcons; vite! never say keel!’ cried Baptiste excitedly,
stripping off the harness.
But Sandy would not leave the horses till they were carefully rubbed
down, blanketed, and fed, for he was entered for the four-horse race
and it behoved him to do his best to win. Besides, he scorned to hurry
himself for anything so unimportant as eating; that he considered hardly
worthy even of Baptiste. Mr. Craig managed to get a word with him before
he went off, and I saw Sandy solemnly and emphatically shake his head,
saying, ‘Ah! we’ll beat him this day,’ and I gathered that he was added
to the vigilance committee.
Old man Nelson was busy with his own team. He turned slowly at Mr.
Craig’s greeting, ‘How is it, Nelson?’ and it was with a very grave
voice he answered, ‘I hardly know, sir; but I am not gone yet, though it
seems little to hold to.’
‘All you want for a grip is what your hand can cover. What would you
have? And besides, do you know why you are not gone yet?’
The old man waited, looking at the minister gravely.
‘Because He hasn’t let go His grip of you.’
‘How do you know He’s gripped me?’
‘Now, look here, Nelson, do you want to quit this thing and give it all
up?’
‘No, no! For heaven’s sake, no! Why, do you think I have lost it?’ said
Nelson, almost piteously.
‘Well, He’s keener about it than you; and I’ll bet you haven’t thought
it worth while to thank Him.’
‘To thank Him,’ he repeated, almost stupidly, ‘for--’
‘For keeping you where you are overnight,’ said Mr. Craig, almost
sternly.
The old man gazed at the minister, a light growing in his eyes.
‘You’re right. Thank God, you’re right.’ And then he turned quickly
away, and went into the stable behind his team. It was a minute before
he came out. Over his face there was a trembling joy.
‘Can I do anything for you to-day?’ he asked humbly.
‘Indeed you just can,’ said the minister, taking his hand and shaking it
very warmly; and then he told him Slavin’s programme and ours.
‘Sandy is all right till after his race. After that is his time of
danger,’ said the minister.
‘I’ll stay with him, sir,’ said old Nelson, in the tone of a man taking
a covenant, and immediately set off for the coffee-tent.
‘Here comes another recruit for your corps,’ I said, pointing to Leslie
Graeme, who was coming down the street at that moment in his light
sleigh.
‘I am not so sure. Do you think you could get him?’
I laughed. ‘You are a good one.’
‘Well,’ he replied, half defiantly, ‘is not this your fight too?’
‘You make me think so, though I am bound to say I hardly recognise
myself to day. But here goes,’ and before I knew it I was describing
our plans to Graeme, growing more and more enthusiastic as he sat in his
sleigh, listening with a quizzical smile I didn’t quite like.
‘He’s got you too,’ he said; ‘I feared so.’
‘Well,’ I laughed, ‘perhaps so. But I want to lick that man Slavin. I’ve
just seen him, and he’s just what Craig calls him, “a slick son of the
devil.” Don’t be shocked; he says it is Scripture.’
‘Revised version,’ said Graeme gravely, while Craig looked a little
abashed.
‘What is assigned me, Mr. Craig? for I know that this man is simply your
agent.’
I repudiated the idea, while Mr. Craig said nothing.
‘What’s my part?’ demanded Graeme.
‘Well,’ said Mr. Craig hesitatingly, ‘of course I would do nothing till
I had consulted you; but I want a man to take my place at the sports. I
am referee.’
‘That’s all right,’ said Graeme, with an air of relief; ‘I expected
something hard.’
‘And then I thought you would not mind presiding at dinner--I want it to
go off well.’
‘Did you notice that?’ said Graeme to me. ‘Not a bad touch, eh?’
‘That’s nothing to the way he touched me. Wait and learn,’ I answered,
while Craig looked quite distressed. ‘He’ll do it, Mr. Craig, never
fear,’ I said, ‘and any other little duty that may occur to you.’
‘Now that’s too bad of you. That is all I want, honour bright,’ he
replied; adding, as he turned away, ‘you are just in time for a cup of
coffee, Mr. Graeme. Now I must see Mrs. Mavor.’
‘Who is Mrs. Mavor?’ I demanded of Graeme.
‘Mrs. Mavor? The miners’ guardian angel.’
We put up the horses and set off for coffee. As we approached the
booth Graeme caught sight of the Punch and Judy show, stood still in
amazement, and exclaimed, ‘Can the dead live?’
‘Punch and Judy never die,’ I replied solemnly.
‘But the old manipulator is dead enough, poor old beggar!’
‘But he left his mantle, as you see.’
He looked at me a moment
‘What! do you mean, you--?’
‘Yes, that is exactly what I do mean.’
‘He is great man, that Craig fellow--a truly great man.’
And then he leaned up against a tree and laughed till the tears came.
‘I say, old boy, don’t mind me,’ he gasped, ‘but do you remember the old
‘Varsity show?’
‘Yes, you villain; and I remember your part in it. I wonder how you can,
even at this remote date, laugh at it.’ For I had a vivid recollection
of how, after a ‘chaste and highly artistic performance of this
mediaeval play’ had been given before a distinguished Toronto audience,
the trap door by which I had entered my box was fastened, and I was left
to swelter in my cage, and forced to listen to the suffocated laughter
from the wings and the stage whispers of ‘Hello, Mr. Punch, where’s the
baby?’ And for many a day after I was subjected to anxious inquiries as
to the locality and health of ‘the baby,’ and whether it was able to be
out.
‘Oh, the dear old days!’ he kept saying, over and over, in a tone so
full of sadness that my heart grew sore for him and I forgave him, as
many a time before.
The sports passed off in typical Western style. In addition to the usual
running and leaping contests, there was rifle and pistol shooting, in
both of which old man Nelson stood first, with Shaw, foreman of the
mines, second.
The great event of the day, however, was to be the four-horse race,
for which three teams were entered--one from the mines driven by Nixon,
Craig’s friend, a citizens’ team, and Sandy’s. The race was really
between the miners’ team, and that from the woods, for the citizens’
team, though made up of speedy horses, had not been driven much
together, and knew neither their driver nor each other. In the miners’
team were four bays, very powerful, a trifle heavy perhaps, but well
matched, perfectly trained, and perfectly handled by their driver. Sandy
had his long rangy roans, and for leaders a pair of half-broken
pinto bronchos. The pintos, caught the summer before upon the Alberta
prairies, were fleet as deer, but wicked and uncertain. They were
Baptiste’s special care and pride. If they would only run straight
there was little doubt that they would carry the roans and themselves to
glory; but one could not tell the moment they might bolt or kick things
to pieces.
Being the only non-partisan in the crowd I was asked to referee. The
race was about half a mile and return, the first and last quarters being
upon the ice. The course, after leaving the ice, led up from the river
by a long easy slope to the level above; and at the further end curved
somewhat sharply round the Old Fort. The only condition attaching to the
race was that the teams should start from the scratch, make the turn of
the Fort, and finish at the scratch. There were no vexing regulations as
to fouls. The man making the foul would find it necessary to reckon
with the crowd, which was considered sufficient guarantee for a fair and
square race. Owing to the hazards of the course, the result would depend
upon the skill of the drivers quite as much as upon the speed of the
teams. The points of hazard were at the turn round the Old Fort, and at
a little ravine which led down to the river, over which the road passed
by means of a long log bridge or causeway.
From a point upon the high bank of the river the whole course lay in
open view. It was a scene full of life and vividly picturesque. There
were miners in dark clothes and peak caps; citizens in ordinary garb;
ranchmen in wide cowboy hats and buckskin shirts and leggings, some
with cartridge-belts and pistols; a few half-breeds and Indians in
half-native, half-civilised dress; and scattering through the crowd the
lumbermen with gay scarlet and blue blanket coats, and some with knitted
tuques of the same colours. A very good-natured but extremely uncertain
crowd it was. At the head of each horse stood a man, but at the pintos’
heads Baptiste stood alone, trying to hold down the off leader, thrown
into a frenzy of fear by the yelling of the crowd.
Gradually all became quiet, till, in the midst of absolute stillness,
came the words, ‘Are you ready?’, then the pistol-shot and the great
race had begun. Above the roar of the crowd came the shrill cry of
Baptiste, as he struck his broncho with the palm of his hand, and swung
himself into the sleigh beside Sandy, as it shot past.
Like a flash the bronchos sprang to the front, two lengths before the
other teams; but, terrified by the yelling of the crowd, instead of
bending to the left bank up which the road wound, they wheeled to the
right and were almost across the river before Sandy could swing them
back into the course.
Baptiste’s cries, a curious mixture of French and English, continued to
strike through all other sounds till they gained the top of the slope
to find the others almost a hundred yards in front, the citizens’ team
leading, with the miners’ following close. The moment the pintos caught
sight of the teams before them they set off at a terrific pace and
steadily devoured the intervening space. Nearer and nearer the turn
came, the eight horses in front, running straight and well within their
speed. After them flew the pintos, running savagely with ears set back,
leading well the big roans, thundering along and gaining at every bound.
And now the citizens’ team had almost reached the Fort, running hard,
and drawing away from the bays. But Nixon knew what he was about, and
was simply steadying his team for the turn. The event proved his wisdom,
for in the turn the leading team left the track, lost a moment or two in
the deep snow, and before they could regain the road the bays had swept
superbly past, leaving their rivals to follow in the rear. On came the
pintos, swiftly nearing the Fort. Surely at that pace they cannot make
the turn. But Sandy knows his leaders. They have their eyes upon the
teams in front, and need no touch of rein. Without the slightest change
in speed the nimble-footed bronchos round the turn, hauling the big
roans after them, and fall in behind the citizens’ team, which is
regaining steadily the ground lost in the turn.
And now the struggle is for the bridge over the ravine. The bays in
front, running with mouths wide open, are evidently doing their best;
behind them, and every moment nearing them, but at the limit of their
speed too, come the lighter and fleeter citizens’ team; while opposite
their driver are the pintos, pulling hard, eager and fresh. Their temper
is too uncertain to send them to the front; they run well following, but
when leading cannot be trusted, and besides, a broncho hates a bridge;
so Sandy holds them where they are, waiting and hoping for his chance
after the bridge is crossed. Foot by foot the citizens’ team creep
up upon the flank of the bays, with the pintos in turn hugging them
closely, till it seems as if the three, if none slackens, must strike
the bridge together; and this will mean destruction to one at least.
This danger Sandy perceives, but he dare not check his leaders.
Suddenly, within a few yards of the bridge, Baptiste throws himself upon
the lines, wrenches them out of Sandy’s hands, and, with a quick swing,
faces the pintos down the steep side of the ravine, which is almost
sheer ice with a thin coat of snow. It is a daring course to take, for
the ravine, though not deep, is full of undergrowth, and is partially
closed up by a brush heap at the further end. But, with a yell, Baptiste
hurls his four horses down the slope, and into the undergrowth. ‘Allons,
mes enfants! Courage! vite, vite!’ cries their driver, and nobly do the
pintos respond. Regardless of bushes and brush heaps, they tear their
way through; but, as they emerge, the hind bob-sleigh catches a root,
and, with a crash, the sleigh is hurled high in the air. Baptiste’s
cries ring out high and shrill as ever, encouraging his team, and never
cease till, with a plunge and a scramble, they clear the brush heap
lying at the mouth of the ravine, and are out on the ice on the river,
with Baptiste standing on the front bob, the box trailing behind, and
Sandy nowhere to be seen.
Three hundred yards of the course remain. The bays, perfectly handled,
have gained at the bridge and in the descent to the ice, and are leading
the citizens’ team by half a dozen sleigh lengths. Behind both comes
Baptiste. It is now or never for the pintos. The rattle of the trailing
box, together with the wild yelling of the crowd rushing down the bank,
excites the bronchos to madness, and, taking the bits in their teeth,
they do their first free running that day. Past the citizens’ team like
a whirlwind they dash, clear the intervening space, and gain the flanks
of the bays. Can the bays hold them? Over them leans their driver,
plying for the first time the hissing lash. Only fifty yards more. The
miners begin to yell. But Baptiste, waving his lines high in one hand
seizes his tuque with the other, whirls it about his head and flings it
with a fiercer yell than ever at the bronchos. Like the bursting of a
hurricane the pintos leap forward, and with a splendid rush cross the
scratch, winners by their own length.
There was a wild quarter of an hour. The shantymen had torn off their
coats and were waving them wildly and tossing them high, while the
ranchers added to the uproar by emptying their revolvers into the air in
a way that made one nervous.
When the crowd was somewhat quieted Sandy’s stiff figure appeared,
slowly making towards them. A dozen lumbermen ran to him, eagerly
inquiring if he were hurt. But Sandy could only curse the little
Frenchman for losing the race.
‘Lost! Why, man, we’ve won it!’ shouted a voice, at which Sandy’s rage
vanished, and he allowed himself to be carried in upon the shoulders of
his admirers.
‘Where’s the lad?’ was his first question.
The bronchos are off with him. He’s down at the rapids like enough.’
‘Let me go,’ shouted Sandy, setting off at a run in the track of the
sleigh. He had not gone far before he met Baptiste coming back with his
team foaming, the roans going quietly, but the bronchos dancing, and
eager to be at it again.
‘Voila! bully boy! tank the bon Dieu, Sandy; you not keel, heh? Ah!
you are one grand chevalier,’ exclaimed Baptiste, hauling Sandy in and
thrusting the lines into his hands. And so they came back, the sleigh
box still dragging behind, the pintos executing fantastic figures on
their hind legs, and Sandy holding them down. The little Frenchman
struck a dramatic attitude and called out--
‘Voila! What’s the matter wiz Sandy, heh?’
The roar that answered set the bronchos off again plunging and kicking,
and only when Baptiste got them by the heads could they be induced to
stand long enough to allow Sandy to be proclaimed winner of the race.
Several of the lumbermen sprang into the sleigh box with Sandy and
Baptiste, among them Keefe, followed by Nelson, and the first part of
the great day was over. Slavin could not understand the new order
of things. That a great event like the four-horse race should not
be followed by ‘drinks all round’ was to him at once disgusting and
incomprehensible; and, realising his defeat for the moment, he fell into
the crowd and disappeared. But he left behind him his ‘runners.’ He had
not yet thrown up the game.
Mr. Craig meantime came to me, and, looking anxiously after Sandy in
his sleigh, with his frantic crowd of yelling admirers, said in a gloomy
voice, ‘Poor Sandy! He is easily caught, and Keefe has the devil’s
cunning.’
‘He won’t touch Slavin’s whisky to-day,’ I answered confidently.
‘There’ll be twenty bottles waiting him in the stable,’ he replied
bitterly, ‘and I can’t go following him up.’
‘He won’t stand that, no man would. God help us all.’ I could hardly
recognise myself, for I found in my heart an earnest echo to that prayer
as I watched him go toward the crowd again, his face set in strong
determination. He looked like the captain of a forlorn hope, and I was
proud to be following him.
CHAPTER III
WATERLOO. OUR FIGHT--HIS VICTORY
The sports were over, and there remained still an hour to be filled
in before dinner. It was an hour full of danger to Craig’s hopes of
victory, for the men were wild with excitement, and ready for the most
reckless means of ‘slinging their dust.’ I could not but admire the
skill with which Mr. Craig caught their attention.
‘Gentlemen,’ he called out, ‘we’ve forgotten the judge of the great
race. Three cheers for Mr. Connor!’
Two of the shantymen picked me up and hoisted me on their shoulders
while the cheers were given.
‘Announce the Punch and Judy,’ he entreated me, in a low voice. I did so
in a little speech, and was forthwith borne aloft, through the street to
the booth, followed by the whole crowd, cheering like mad.
The excitement of the crowd caught me, and for an hour I squeaked and
worked the wires of the immortal and unhappy family in a manner hitherto
unapproached by me at least. I was glad enough when Graeme came to tell
me to send the men in to dinner. This Mr. Punch did in the most
gracious manner, and again with cheers for Punch’s master they trooped
tumultuously into the tent.
We had only well begun when Baptiste came in quietly but hurriedly and
whispered to me--
‘M’sieu Craig, he’s gone to Slavin’s, and would lak you and M’sieu
Graeme would follow queek. Sandy he’s take one leel drink up at de
stable, and he’s go mad lak one diable.’
I sent him for Graeme, who was presiding at dinner, and set off for
Slavin’s at a run. There I found Mr. Craig and Nelson holding Sandy,
more than half drunk, back from Slavin, who, stripped to the shirt, was
coolly waiting with a taunting smile.
‘Let me go, Mr. Craig,’ Sandy was saying, ‘I am a good Presbyterian. He
is a Papist thief; and he has my money; and I will have it out of the
soul of him.’
‘Let him go, preacher,’ sneered Slavin, ‘I’ll cool him off for yez. But
ye’d better hold him if yez wants his mug left on to him.’
‘Let him go!’ Keefe was shouting.
‘Hands off!’ Blaney was echoing.
I pushed my way in. ‘What’s up?’ I cried.
‘Mr. Connor,’ said Sandy solemnly, ‘it is a gentleman you are, though
your name is against you, and I am a good Presbyterian, and I can give
you the Commandments and Reasons annexed to them; but yon’s a thief, a
Papist thief, and I am justified in getting my money out of his soul.’
‘But,’ I remonstrated, ‘you won’t get it in this way.’
‘He has my money,’ reiterated Sandy.
‘He is a blank liar, and he’s afraid to take it up,’ said Slavin, in a
low, cool tone.
With a roar Sandy broke away and rushed at him; but, without moving
from his tracks, Slavin met him with a straight left-hander and laid him
flat.
‘Hooray,’ yelled Blaney, ‘Ireland for ever!’ and, seizing the iron
poker, swung it around his head, crying, ‘Back, or, by the holy Moses,
I’ll kill the first man that interferes wid the game.’
‘Give it to him!’ Keefe said savagely.
Sandy rose slowly, gazing round stupidly.
‘He don’t know what hit him,’ laughed Keefe.
This roused the Highlander, and saying, ‘I’ll settle you afterwards,
Mister Keefe,’ he rushed in again at Slavin. Again Slavin met him again
with his left, staggered him, and, before he fell, took a step forward
and delivered a terrific right-hand blow on his jaw. Poor Sandy went
down in a heap amid the yells of Blaney, Keefe, and some others of the
gang. I was in despair when in came Baptiste and Graeme.
One look at Sandy, and Baptiste tore off his coat and cap, slammed them
on the floor, danced on them, and with a long-drawn ‘sap-r-r-r-rie,’
rushed at Slavin. But Graeme caught him by the back of the neck, saying,
‘Hold on, little man,’ and turning to Slavin, pointed to Sandy, who was
reviving under Nelson’s care, and said, ‘What’s this for?’
‘Ask him,’ said Slavin insolently. ‘He knows.’
‘What is it, Nelson?’
Nelson explained that Sandy, after drinking some at the stable and a
glass at the Black Rock Hotel, had come down here with Keefe and the
others, had lost his money, and was accusing Slavin of robbing him.
‘Did you furnish him with liquor?’ said Graeme sternly.
‘It is none of your business,’ replied Slavin, with an oath.
‘I shall make it my business. It is not the first time my men have lost
money in this saloon.’
‘You lie,’ said Slavin, with deliberate emphasis.
‘Slavin,’ said Graeme quietly, ‘it’s a pity you said that, because,
unless you apologise in one minute, I shall make you sorry.’
‘Apologise?’ roared Slavin, ‘apologise to you?’ calling him a vile name.
Graeme grew white, and said even more slowly, ‘Now you’ll have to take
it; no apology will do.’
He slowly stripped off coat and vest. Mr. Craig interposed, begging
Graeme to let the matter pass. ‘Surely he is not worth it.’
‘Mr. Craig,’ said Graeme, with an easy smile, ‘you don’t understand. No
man can call me that name and walk around afterwards feeling well.’
Then, turning to Slavin, he said, ‘Now, if you want a minute’s rest, I
can wait.’
Slavin, with a curse, bade him come.
‘Blaney,’ said Graeme sharply, ‘you get back.’ Blaney promptly stepped
back to Keefe’s side. ‘Nelson, you and Baptiste can see that they stay
there.’ The old man nodded and looked at Craig, who simply said, ‘Do the
best you can.’
It was a good fight. Slavin had plenty of pluck, and for a time forced
the fighting, Graeme guarding easily and tapping him aggravatingly about
the nose and eyes, drawing blood, but not disabling him. Gradually there
came a look of fear into Slavin’s eyes, and the beads stood upon his
face. He had met his master.
‘Now, Slavin, you’re beginning to be sorry; and now I am going to show
you what you are made of.’ Graeme made one or two lightning passes,
struck Slavin one, two, three terrific blows, and laid him quite flat
and senseless. Keefe and Blaney both sprang forward, but there was a
savage kind of growl.
‘Hold, there!’ It was old man Nelson looking along a pistol barrel. ‘You
know me, Keefe,’ he said. ‘You won’t do any murder this time.’
Keefe turned green and yellow, and staggered back, while Slavin slowly
rose to his feet.
‘Will you take some more?’ said Graeme. ‘You haven’t got much; but mind
I have stopped playing with you. Put up your gun, Nelson. No one will
interfere now.’
Slavin hesitated, then rushed, but Graeme stepped to meet him, and
we saw Slavin’s heels in the air as he fell back upon his neck and
shoulders and lay still, with his toes quivering.
‘Bon!’ yelled Baptiste. ‘Bully boy! Dat’s de bon stuff. Dat’s larn him
one good lesson.’ But immediately he shrieked, Gar-r-r-r-e a vous!’
He was too late, for there was a crash of breaking glass, and Graeme
fell to the floor with a long deep cut on the side of his head. Keefe
had hurled a bottle with all too sure an aim, and had fled. I thought
he was dead; but we carried him out, and in a few minutes he groaned,
opened his eyes, and sank again into insensibility.
‘Where can we take him?’ I cried.
‘To my shack,’ said Mr. Craig.
‘Is there no place nearer?’
‘Yes; Mrs. Mavor’s. I shall run on to tell her.’
She met us at the door. I had in mind to say some words of apology, but
when I looked upon her face I forgot my words, forgot my business at her
door, and stood simply looking.
‘Come in! Bring him in! Please do not wait,’ she said, and her voice was
sweet and soft and firm.
We laid him in a large room at the back of the shop over which Mrs.
Mavor lived. Together we dressed the wound, her firm white fingers,
skilful as if with long training. Before the dressing was finished
I sent Craig off, for the time had come for the Magic Lantern in the
church, and I knew how critical the moment was in our fight. ‘Go,’ I
said; ‘he is coming to, and we do not need you.’
In a few moments more Graeme revived, and, gazing about, asked, ‘What’s,
all this about?’ and then, recollecting, ‘Ah! that brute Keefe’; then
seeing my anxious face he said carelessly, ‘Awful bore, ain’t it? Sorry
to trouble you, old fellow.’
‘You be hanged!’ I said shortly; for his old sweet smile was playing
about his lips, and was almost too much for me. ‘Mrs. Mavor and I are in
command, and you must keep perfectly still.’
‘Mrs. Mavor?’ he said, in surprise. She came forward, with a slight
flush on her face.
‘I think you know me, Mr. Graeme.’
‘I have often seen you, and wished to know you. I am sorry to bring you
this trouble.’
‘You must not say so,’ she replied, ‘but let me do all for you that I
can. And now the doctor says you are to lie still.’
‘The doctor? Oh! you mean Connor. He is hardly there yet. You don’t know
each other. Permit me to present Mr. Connor, Mrs. Mavor.’
As she bowed slightly, her eyes looked into mine with serious gaze, not
inquiring, yet searching my soul. As I looked into her eyes I forgot
everything about me, and when I recalled myself it seemed as if I
had been away in some far place. It was not their colour or their
brightness; I do not yet know their colour, and I have often looked into
them; and they were not bright; but they were clear, and one could look
far down into them, and in their depths see a glowing, steady light.
As I went to get some drugs from the Black Rock doctor, I found myself
wondering about that far-down light; and about her voice, how it could
get that sound from far away.
I found the doctor quite drunk, as indeed Mr. Craig had warned; but his
drugs were good, and I got what I wanted and quickly returned.
While Graeme slept Mrs. Mavor made me tea. As the evening wore on I told
her the events of the day, dwelling admiringly upon Craig’s generalship.
She smiled at this.
‘He got me too,’ she said. ‘Nixon was sent to me just before the sports;
and I don’t think he will break down to-day, and I am so thankful.’ And
her eyes glowed.
‘I am quite sure he won’t,’ I thought to myself, but I said no word.
After a long pause, she went on, ‘I have promised Mr. Craig to sing
to-night, if I am needed!’ and then, after a moment’s hesitation, ‘It
is two years since I have been able to sing--two years,’ she repeated,
‘since’--and then her brave voice trembled--‘my husband was killed.’
‘I quite understand,’ I said, having no other word on my tongue
‘And,’ she went on quietly, ‘I fear I have been selfish. It is hard to
sing the same songs. We were very happy. But the miners like to hear me
sing, and I think perhaps it helps them to feel less lonely, and keeps
them from evil. I shall try to-night, if I am needed. Mr. Craig will not
ask me unless he must.’
I would have seen every miner and lumberman in the place hideously drunk
before I would have asked her to sing one song while her heart ached. I
wondered at Craig, and said, rather angrily--
‘He thinks only of those wretched miners and shantymen of his.’
She looked at me with wonder in her eyes, and said gently, ‘And are they
not Christ’s too?’
And I found no word to reply.
It was nearing ten o’clock, and I was wondering how the fight was going,
and hoping that Mrs. Mavor would not be needed, when the door opened,
and old man Nelson and Sandy, the latter much battered and ashamed, came
in with the word for Mrs. Mavor.
‘I will come,’ she said simply. She saw me preparing to accompany her,
and asked, ‘Do you think you can leave him?’
‘He will do quite well in Nelson’s care.’
‘Then I am glad; for I must take my little one with me. I did not put
her to bed in case I should need to go, and I may not leave her.’
We entered the church by the back door, and saw at once that even yet
the battle might easily be lost.
Some miners had just come from Slavin’s, evidently bent on breaking up
the meeting, in revenge for the collapse of the dance, which Slavin
was unable to enjoy, much less direct. Craig was gallantly holding his
ground, finding it hard work to keep his men in good humour, and so
prevent a fight, for there were cries of ‘Put him out! Put the beast
out!’ at a miner half drunk and wholly outrageous.
The look of relief that came over his face when Craig caught sight of us
told how anxious he had been, and reconciled me to Mrs. Mavor’s singing.
‘Thank the good God,’ he said, with what came near being a sob, ‘I was
about to despair.’
He immediately walked to the front and called out--
‘Gentlemen, if you wish it, Mrs. Mavor will sing.’
There was a dead silence. Some one began to applaud, but a miner said
savagely, ‘Stop that, you fool!’
There was a few moments’ delay, when from the crowd a voice called out,
‘Does Mrs. Mavor wish to sing?’ followed by cries of ‘Ay, that’s it.’
Then Shaw, the foreman at the mines, stood up in the audience and said--
‘Mr. Craig and gentlemen, you know that three years ago I was known as
“Old Ricketts,” and that I owe all I am to-night, under God, to Mrs.
Mavor, and’--with a little quiver in his voice--‘her baby. And we all
know that for two years she has not sung; and we all know why. And what
I say is, that if she does not feel like singing to-night, she is not
going to sing to keep any drunken brute of Slavin’s crowd quiet.’
There were deep growls of approval all over the church. I could have
hugged Shaw then and there. Mr. Craig went to Mrs. Mavor, and after a
word with her came back and said--
‘Mrs. Mavor, wishes me to thank her dear friend Mr. Shaw, but says she
would like to sing.’
The response was perfect stillness. Mr. Craig sat down to the organ
and played the opening bars of the touching melody, ‘Oft in the Stilly
Night.’ Mrs. Mavor came to the front, and, with a smile of exquisite
sweetness upon her sad face, and looking straight at us with her
glorious eyes, began to sing.
Her voice, a rich soprano, even and true, rose and fell, now soft, now
strong, but always filling the building, pouring around us floods of
music. I had heard Patti’s ‘Home, sweet Home,’ and of all singing that
alone affected me as did this.
At the end of the first verse the few women in the church and some men
were weeping quietly; but when she began the words--
‘When I remember all
The friends once linked together,’
sobs came on every side from these tender-hearted fellows, and Shaw
quite lost his grip. But she sang steadily on, the tone clearer and
sweeter and fuller at every note, and when the sound of her voice died
away, she stood looking at the men as if in wonder that they should
weep. No one moved. Mr. Craig played softly on, and, wandering through
many variations, arrived at last at
‘Jesus, lover of my soul.’
As she sang the appealing words, her face was lifted up, and she saw
none of us; but she must have seen some one, for the cry in her voice
could only come from one who could see and feel help close at hand. On
and on went the glorious voice, searching my soul’s depths; but when she
came to the words--
‘Thou, O Christ, art all I want,’
she stretched up her arms--she had quite forgotten us, her voice had
borne her to other worlds--and sang with such a passion of ‘abandon’
that my soul was ready to surrender anything, everything.
Again Mr. Craig wandered on through his changing chords till again he
came to familiar ground, and the voice began, in low, thrilling tones,
Bernard’s great song of home--
‘Jerusalem the golden.’
Every word, with all its weight of meaning, came winging to our souls,
till we found ourselves gazing afar into those stately halls of Zion,
with their daylight serene and their jubilant throngs. When the singer
came to the last verse there was a pause. Again Mr. Craig softly played
the interlude, but still there was no voice. I looked up. She was very
white, and her eyes were glowing with their deep light. Mr. Craig looked
quickly about, saw her, stopped, and half rose, as if to go to her,
when, in a voice that seemed to come from a far-off land, she went on--
‘O sweet and blessed country!’
The longing, the yearning, in the second ‘O’ were indescribable. Again
and again, as she held that word, and then dropped down with the cadence
in the music, my heart ached for I knew not what.
The audience were sitting as in a trance. The grimy faces of the miners,
for they never get quite white, were furrowed with the tear-courses.
Shaw, by this time, had his face too lifted high, his eyes gazing far
above the singer’s head, and I knew by the rapture in his face that he
was seeing, as she saw, the thronging stately halls and the white-robed
conquerors. He had felt, and was still feeling, all the stress of
the fight, and to him the vision of the conquerors in their glory was
soul-drawing and soul-stirring. And Nixon, too--he had his vision; but
what he saw was the face of the singer, with the shining eyes, and, by
the look of him, that was vision enough.
Immediately after her last note Mrs. Mavor stretched out her hands to
her little girl, who was sitting on my knee, caught her up, and, holding
her close to her breast, walked quickly behind the curtain. Not a sound
followed the singing: no one moved till she had disappeared; and then
Mr. Craig came to the front, and, motioning to me to follow Mrs. Mavor,
began in a low, distinct voice--
‘Gentlemen, it was not easy for Mrs. Mavor to sing for us, and you
know she sang because she is a miner’s wife, and her heart is with the
miners. But she sang, too, because her heart is His who came to earth
this day so many years ago to save us all; and she would make you love
Him too. For in loving Him you are saved from all base loves, and you
know what I mean.
‘And before we say good-night, men, I want to know if the time is not
come when all of you who mean to be better than you are should join in
putting from us this thing that has brought sorrow and shame to us and
to those we love? You know what I mean. Some of you are strong; will you
stand by and see weaker men robbed of the money they save for those far
away, and robbed of the manhood that no money can buy or restore?
‘Will the strong men help? Shall we all join hands in this? What do you
say? In this town we have often seen hell, and just a moment ago we were
all looking into heaven, “the sweet and blessed country.” O men!’ and
his voice rang in an agony through the building--‘O men! which shall be
ours? For Heaven’s dear sake, let us help one another! Who will?’
I was looking out through a slit in the curtain. The men, already
wrought to intense feeling by the music, were listening with set faces
and gleaming eyes, and as at the appeal ‘Who will?’ Craig raised high
his hand, Shaw, Nixon, and a hundred men sprang to their feet and held
high their hands.
I have witnessed some thrilling scenes in my life, but never anything
to equal that: the one man on the platform standing at full height,
with his hand thrown up to heaven, and the hundred men below standing
straight, with arms up at full length, silent, and almost motionless.
For a moment Craig held them so; and again his voice rang out, louder,
sterner than before--
‘All who mean it, say, “By God’s help I will.”’ And back from a hundred
throats came deep and strong the words, ‘By God’s help, I will.’
At this point Mrs. Mavor, whom I had quite forgotten, put her hand on
my arm. ‘Go and tell him,’ she panted, ‘I want them to come on Thursday
night, as they used to in the other days--go--quick,’ and she almost
pushed me out. I gave Craig her message. He held up his hand for
silence.
‘Mrs. Mavor wishes me to say that she will be glad to see you all, as in
the old days, on Thursday evening; and I can think of no better place to
give formal expression to our pledge of this night’
There was a shout of acceptance; and then, at some one’s call, the long
pent-up feelings of the crowd found vent in three mighty cheers for Mrs.
Mavor.
‘Now for our old hymn,’ called out Mr. Craig, ‘and Mrs. Mavor will lead
us.’
He sat down at the organ, played a few bars of ‘The Sweet By and By,’
and then Mrs. Mavor began. But not a soul joined till the refrain was
reached, and then they sang as only men with their hearts on fire can
sing. But after the last refrain Mr. Craig made a sign to Mrs. Mavor,
and she sang alone, slowly and softly, and with eyes looking far away--
‘In the sweet by and by,
We shall meet on that beautiful shore.’
There was no benediction--there seemed no need; and the men went quietly
out. But over and over again the voice kept singing in my ears and in
my heart, ‘We shall meet on that beautiful shore.’ And after the
sleigh-loads of men had gone and left the street empty, as I stood with
Craig in the radiant moonlight that made the great mountains about
come near us, from Sandy’s sleigh we heard in the distance Baptiste’s
French-English song; but the song that floated down with the sound of
the bells from the miners’ sleigh was--
‘We shall meet on that beautiful shore.’
‘Poor old Shaw!’ said Craig softly.
When the last sound had died away I turned to him and said--
‘You have won your fight.’
‘We have won our fight; I was beaten,’ he replied quickly, offering
me his hand. Then, taking off his cap, and looking up beyond the
mountain-tops and the silent stars, he added softly, ‘Our fight, but His
victory.’
And, thinking it all over, I could not say but perhaps he was right.
CHAPTER IV
MRS. MAVOR’S STORY
The days that followed the Black Rock Christmas were anxious days and
weary, but not for the brightest of my life would I change them now;
for, as after the burning heat or rocking storm the dying day lies
beautiful in the tender glow of the evening, so these days have lost
their weariness and lie bathed in a misty glory. The years that bring us
many ills, and that pass so stormfully over us, bear away with them the
ugliness, the weariness, the pain that are theirs, but the beauty, the
sweetness, the rest they leave untouched, for these are eternal. As
the mountains, that near at hand stand jagged and scarred, in the far
distance repose in their soft robes of purple haze, so the rough present
fades into the past, soft and sweet and beautiful.
I have set myself to recall the pain and anxiety of those days and
nights when we waited in fear for the turn of the fever, but I can only
think of the patience and gentleness and courage of her who stood beside
me, bearing more than half my burden. And while I can see the face
of Leslie Graeme, ghastly or flushed, and hear his low moaning or the
broken words of his delirium, I think chiefly of the bright face bending
over him, and of the cool, firm, swift-moving hands that soothed and
smoothed and rested, and the voice, like the soft song of a bird in the
twilight, that never failed to bring peace.
Mrs. Mavor and I were much together during those days. I made my home
in Mr. Craig’s shack, but most of my time was spent beside my friend. We
did not see much of Craig, for he was heart-deep with the miners, laying
plans for the making of the League the following Thursday; and though he
shared our anxiety and was ever ready to relieve us, his thought and his
talk had mostly to do with the League.
Mrs. Mavor’s evenings were given to the miners, but her afternoons
mostly to Graeme and to me, and then it was I saw another side of her
character. We would sit in her little dining-room, where the pictures on
the walls, the quaint old silver, and bits of curiously cut glass, all
spoke of other and different days, and thence we would roam the world
of literature and art. Keenly sensitive to all the good and beautiful in
these, she had her favourites among the masters, for whom she was ready
to do battle; and when her argument, instinct with fancy and vivid
imagination, failed, she swept away all opposing opinion with the swift
rush of her enthusiasm; so that, though I felt she was beaten, I was
left without words to reply. Shakespeare and Tennyson and Burns she
loved, but not Shelley, nor Byron, nor even Wordsworth. Browning she
knew not, and therefore could not rank him with her noblest three; but
when I read to her ‘A Death in the Desert,’ and, came to the noble words
at the end of the tale--
‘For all was as I say, and now the man
Lies as he once lay, breast to breast with God,’
the light shone in her eyes, and she said, ‘Oh, that is good and great;
I shall get much out of him; I had always feared he was impossible.’
And ‘Paracelsus,’ too, stirred her; but when I recited the thrilling
fragment, ‘Prospice,’ on to that closing rapturous cry--
‘Then a light, then thy breast,
O thou soul of my soul! I shall clasp thee again,
And with God be the rest!’--
the red colour faded from her cheek, her breath came in a sob, and she
rose quickly and passed out without a word. Ever after, Browning was
among her gods. But when we talked of music, she, adoring Wagner,
soared upon the wings of the mighty Tannhauser, far above, into regions
unknown, leaving me to walk soberly with Beethoven and Mendelssohn.
Yet with all our free, frank talk, there was all the while that in her
gentle courtesy which kept me from venturing into any chamber of her
life whose door she did not set freely open to me. So I vexed myself
about her, and when Mr. Craig returned the next week from the Landing
where he had been for some days, my first question was--
‘Who is Mrs. Mavor? And how in the name of all that is wonderful and
unlikely does she come to be here? And why does she stay?’
He would not answer then; whether it was that his mind was full of the
coming struggle, or whether he shrank from the tale, I know not; but
that night, when we sat together beside his fire, he told me the story,
while I smoked. He was worn with his long, hard drive, and with the
burden of his work, but as he went on with his tale, looking into the
fire as he told it, he forgot all his present weariness and lived again
the scenes he painted for me. This was his story:--
‘I remember well my first sight of her, as she sprang from the front
seat of the stage to the ground, hardly touching her husband’s hand. She
looked a mere girl. Let’s see--five years ago--she couldn’t have been a
day over twenty three. She looked barely twenty. Her swift glance swept
over the group of miners at the hotel door, and then rested on the
mountains standing in all their autumn glory.
‘I was proud of our mountains that evening. Turning to her husband, she
exclaimed: “O Lewis, are they not grand? and lovely, too?” Every miner
lost his heart then and there, but all waited for Abe the driver to give
his verdict before venturing an opinion. Abe said nothing until he had
taken a preliminary drink, and then, calling all hands to fill up, he
lifted his glass high, and said solemnly--
‘“Boys, here’s to her.”
‘Like a flash every glass was emptied, and Abe called out, “Fill her up
again, boys! My treat!”
‘He was evidently quite worked up. Then he began, with solemn emphasis--
‘“Boys, you hear me! She’s a No. 1, triple X, the pure quill with a bead
on it: she’s a--,” and for the first time in his Black Rock history Abe
was stuck for a word. Some one suggested “angel.”
‘“Angel!” repeated Abe, with infinite contempt. “Angel be blowed,” (I
paraphrase here); “angels ain’t in the same month with her; I’d like
to see any blanked angel swing my team around them curves without a
shiver.”
‘“Held the lines herself, Abe?” asked a miner.
‘“That’s what,” said Abe; and then he went off into a fusilade of
scientific profanity, expressive of his esteem for the girl who had
swung his team round the curves; and the miners nodded to each other,
and winked their entire approval of Abe’s performance, for this was his
specialty.
‘Very decent fellow, Abe, but his talk wouldn’t print.’
Here Craig paused, as if balancing Abe’s virtues and vices.
‘Well,’ I urged, ‘who is she?’
‘Oh yes,’ he said, recalling himself; ‘she is an Edinburgh young
lady--met Lewis Mayor, a young Scotch-English man, in London--wealthy,
good family, and all that, but fast, and going to pieces at home. His
people, who own large shares in these mines here, as a last resort
sent him out here to reform. Curiously innocent ideas those old country
people have of the reforming properties of this atmosphere! They send
their young bloods here to reform. Here! in this devil’s camp-ground,
where a man’s lust is his only law, and when, from sheer monotony, a man
must betake himself to the only excitement of the place--that offered
by the saloon. Good people in the east hold up holy hands of horror at
these godless miners; but I tell you it’s asking these boys a good deal
to keep straight and clean in a place like this. I take my excitement
in fighting the devil and doing my work generally, and that gives me
enough; but these poor chaps--hard worked, homeless, with no break or
change--God help them and me!’ and his voice sank low.
‘Well,’ I persisted, ‘did Mavor reform?’
Again he roused himself. ‘Reform? Not exactly. In six-months he had
broken through all restraint; and, mind you, not the miners’ fault--not
a miner helped him down. It was a sight to make angels weep when Mrs.
Mavor would come to the saloon door for her husband. Every miner would
vanish; they could not look upon her shame, and they would send Mavor
forth in the charge of Billy Breen, a queer little chap, who had
belonged to the Mavors in some way in the old country, and between them
they would get him home. How she stood it puzzles me to this day; but
she never made any sign, and her courage never failed. It was always a
bright, brave, proud face she held up to the world--except in church;
there it was different. I used to preach my sermons, I believe, mostly
for her--but never so that she could suspect--as bravely and as cheerily
as I could. And as she listened, and especially as she sang--how she
used to sing in those days!--there was no touch of pride in her face,
though the courage never died out, but appeal, appeal! I could have
cursed aloud the cause of her misery, or wept for the pity of it. Before
her baby was born he seemed to pull himself together, for he was
quite mad about her, and from the day the baby came--talk about
miracles!--from that day he never drank a drop. She gave the baby over
to him, and the baby simply absorbed him.
‘He was a new man. He could not drink whisky and kiss his baby. And
the miners--it was really absurd if it were not so pathetic. It was the
first baby in Black Rock, and they used to crowd Mavor’s shop and peep
into the room at the back of it--I forgot to tell you that when he
lost his position as manager he opened a hardware shop, for his people
chucked him, and he was too proud to write home for money--just for a
chance to be asked in to see the baby. I came upon Nixon standing at the
back of the shop after he had seen the baby for the first time, sobbing
hard, and to my question he replied: “It’s just like my own.” You can’t
understand this. But to men who have lived so long in the mountains that
they have forgotten what a baby looks like, who have had experience of
humanity only in its roughest, foulest form, this little mite, sweet
and clean, was like an angel fresh from heaven, the one link in all that
black camp that bound them to what was purest and best in their past.
‘And to see the mother and her baby handle the miners!
‘Oh, it was all beautiful beyond words! I shall never forget the shock
I got one night when I found “Old Ricketts” nursing the baby. A drunken
old beast he was; but there he was sitting, sober enough, making
extraordinary faces at the baby, who was grabbing at his nose and
whiskers and cooing in blissful delight. Poor “Old Ricketts” looked as
if he had been caught stealing, and muttering something about having to
go, gazed wildly round for some place in which to lay the baby, when in
came the mother, saying in her own sweet, frank way: “O Mr. Ricketts”
(she didn’t find out till afterwards his name was Shaw), “would you mind
keeping her just a little longer?--I shall be back in a few minutes.”
And “Old Ricketts” guessed he could wait.
‘But in six months mother and baby, between them, transformed “Old
Ricketts” into Mr. Shaw, fire-boss of the mines. And then in the
evenings, when she would be singing her baby to sleep, the little shop
would be full of miners, listening in dead silence to the baby-songs,
and the English songs, and the Scotch songs she poured forth without
stint, for she sang more for them than for her baby. No wonder they
adored her. She was so bright, so gay, she brought light with her when
she went into the camp, into the pits--for she went down to see the men
work--or into a sick miner’s shack; and many a man, lonely and sick
for home or wife, or baby or mother, found in that back room cheer and
comfort and courage, and to many a poor broken wretch that room became,
as one miner put it, “the anteroom to heaven.”’
Mr. Craig paused, and I waited. Then he went on slowly--
‘For a year and a half that was the happiest home in all the world, till
one day--’
He put his face in his hands, and shuddered.
‘I don’t think I can ever forget the awful horror of that bright fall
afternoon, when “Old Ricketts” came breathless to me and gasped, “Come!
for the dear Lord’s sake,” and I rushed after him. At the mouth of
the shaft lay three men dead. One was Lewis Mavor. He had gone down to
superintend the running of a new drift; the two men, half drunk with
Slavin’s whisky, set off a shot prematurely, to their own and Mavor’s
destruction. They were badly burned, but his face was untouched. A miner
was sponging off the bloody froth oozing from his lips. The others were
standing about waiting for me to speak. But I could find no word, for my
heart was sick, thinking, as they were, of the young mother and her baby
waiting at home. So I stood, looking stupidly from one to the other,
trying to find some reason--coward that I was--why another should bear
the news rather than I. And while we stood there, looking at one another
in fear, there broke upon us the sound of a voice mounting high above
the birch tops, singing--
“Will ye no’ come back again?
Will ye no’ come back again?
Better lo’ed ye canna be,
Will ye no’ come back again?”
‘A strange terror seized us. Instinctively the men closed up in front of
the body, and stood in silence. Nearer and nearer came the clear, sweet
voice, ringing like a silver bell up the steep--
“Sweet the lav’rock’s note and lang,
Liltin’ wildly up the glen,
But aye tae me he sings ae sang,
Will ye no’ come back again?”
‘Before the verse was finished “Old Ricketts” had dropped on his
knees, sobbing out brokenly, “O God! O God! have pity, have pity, have
pity!”--and every man took off his hat. And still the voice came nearer,
singing so brightly the refrain,
‘“Will ye no’ come back again?’
‘It became unbearable. “Old Ricketts” sprang suddenly to his feet, and,
gripping me by the arm, said piteously, “Oh, go to her! for Heaven’s
sake, go to her!” I next remember standing in her path and seeing her
holding out her hands full of red lilies, crying out, “Are they not
lovely? Lewis is so fond of them!” With the promise of much finer ones I
turned her down a path toward the river, talking I know not what folly,
till her great eyes grew grave, then anxious, and my tongue stammered
and became silent. Then, laying her hand upon my arm, she said with
gentle sweetness, “Tell me your trouble, Mr. Craig,” and I knew my agony
had come, and I burst out, “Oh, if it were only mine!” She turned quite
white, and with her deep eyes--you’ve noticed her eyes--drawing the
truth out of mine, she said, “Is it mine, Mr. Craig, and my baby’s?”
I waited, thinking with what words to begin. She put one hand to her
heart, and with the other caught a little poplar-tree that shivered
under her grasp, and said with white lips, but even more gently, “Tell
me.” I wondered at my voice being so steady as I said, “Mrs. Mavor, God
will help you and your baby. There has been an accident--and it is all
over.”
‘She was a miner’s wife, and there was no need for more. I could see
the pattern of the sunlight falling through the trees upon the grass. I
could hear the murmur of the river, and the cry of the cat-bird in the
bushes, but we seemed to be in a strange and unreal world. Suddenly she
stretched out her hands to me, and with a little moan said, “Take me to
him.”
‘“Sit down for a moment or two,” I entreated.
‘“No, no! I am quite ready. See,” she added quietly, “I am quite
strong.”
‘I set off by a short cut leading to her home, hoping the men would be
there before us; but, passing me, she walked swiftly through the trees,
and I followed in fear. As we came near the main path I heard the sound
of feet, and I tried to stop her, but she, too, had heard and knew. “Oh,
let me go!” she said piteously; “you need not fear.” And I had not
the heart to stop her. In a little opening among the pines we met the
bearers. When the men saw her, they laid their burden gently down upon
the carpet of yellow pine-needles, and then, for they had the hearts of
true men in them, they went away into the bushes and left her alone
with her dead. She went swiftly to his side, making no cry, but kneeling
beside him she stroked his face and hands, and touched his curls with
her fingers, murmuring all the time soft words of love. “O my darling,
my bonnie, bonnie darling, speak to me! Will ye not speak to me just one
little word? O my love, my love, my heart’s love! Listen, my darling!”
And she put her lips to his ear, whispering, and then the awful
stillness. Suddenly she lifted her head and scanned his face, and then,
glancing round with a wild surprise in her eyes, she cried, “He will not
speak to me! Oh, he will not speak to me!” I signed to the men, and as
they came forward I went to her and took her hands.
‘“Oh,” she said with a wail in her voice; “he will not speak to me.”
The men were sobbing aloud. She looked at them with wide-open eyes of
wonder. “Why are they weeping? Will he never speak to me again? Tell
me,” she insisted gently. The words were running through my head--
‘“There’s a land that is fairer than day,”
and I said them over to her, holding her hands firmly in mine. She gazed
at me as if in a dream, and the light slowly faded from her eyes as she
said, tearing her hands from mine and waving them towards the mountains
and the woods--
‘“But never more here? Never more here?”
‘I believe in heaven and the other life, but I confess that for a moment
it all seemed shadowy beside the reality of this warm, bright world,
full of life and love. She was very ill for two nights, and when the
coffin was closed a new baby lay in the father’s arms.
‘She slowly came back to life, but there were no more songs. The miners
still come about her shop, and talk to her baby, and bring her their
sorrows and troubles; but though she is always gentle, almost tender,
with them, no man ever says “Sing.” And that is why I am glad she sang
last week; it will be good for her and good for them.’
‘Why does she stay?’ I asked.
‘Mavor’s people wanted her to go to them,’ he replied.
‘They have money--she told me about it, but her heart is in the grave
up there under the pines; and besides, she hopes to do something for the
miners, and she will not leave them.’
I am afraid I snorted a little impatiently as I said, ‘Nonsense! why,
with her face, and manner, and voice she could be anything she liked in
Edinburgh or in London.’
‘And why Edinburgh or London?’ he asked coolly.
‘Why?’ I repeated a little hotly. ‘You think this is better?’
‘Nazareth was good enough for the Lord of glory,’ he answered, with
a smile none too bright; but it drew my heart to him, and my heat was
gone.
‘How long will she stay?’ I asked.
‘Till her work is done,’ he replied.
‘And when will that be?’ I asked impatiently.
‘When God chooses,’ he answered gravely; ‘and don’t you ever think but
that it is worth while. One value of work is not that crowds stare at
it. Read history, man!’
He rose abruptly and began to walk about. ‘And don’t miss the whole
meaning of the Life that lies at the foundation of your religion. Yes,’
he added to himself, ‘the work is worth doing--worth even her doing.’
I could not think so then, but the light of the after years proved him
wiser than I. A man, to see far, must climb to some height, and I was
too much upon the plain in those days to catch even a glimpse of distant
sunlit uplands of triumphant achievement that lie beyond the valley of
self-sacrifice.
CHAPTER V
THE MAKING OF THE LEAGUE
Thursday morning found Craig anxious, even gloomy, but with fight
in every line of his face. I tried to cheer him in my clumsy way by
chaffing him about his League. But he did not blaze up as he often did.
It was a thing too near his heart for that. He only shrank a little from
my stupid chaff and said--
‘Don’t, old chap; this is a good deal to me. I’ve tried for two years to
get this, and if it falls through now, I shall find it hard to bear.’
Then I repented my light words and said, ‘Why! the thing will go sure
enough: after that scene in the church they won’t go back.’
‘Poor fellows!’ he said as if to himself; ‘whisky is about the only
excitement they have, and they find it pretty tough to give it up; and
a lot of the men are against the total abstinence idea. It seems rot to
them.’
‘It is pretty steep,’ I said. ‘Can’t you do without it?’
‘No; I fear not. There is nothing else for it. Some of them talk of
compromise. They want to quit the saloon and drink quietly in their
shacks. The moderate drinker may have his place in other countries,
though I can’t see it. I haven’t thought that out, but here the only
safe man is the man who quits it dead and fights it straight; anything
else is sheerest humbug and nonsense.’
I had not gone in much for total abstinence up to this time, chiefly
because its advocates seemed for the most part to be somewhat
ill-balanced; but as I listened to Craig, I began to feel that perhaps
there was a total abstinence side to the temperance question; and as to
Black Rock, I could see how it must be one thing or the other.
We found Mrs. Mavor brave and bright. She shared Mr. Craig’s anxiety
but not his gloom. Her courage was of that serene kind that refuses to
believe defeat possible, and lifts the spirit into the triumph of final
victory. Through the past week she had been carefully disposing her
forces and winning recruits. And yet she never seemed to urge or
persuade the men; but as evening after evening the miners dropped into
the cosy room downstairs, with her talk and her songs she charmed them
till they were wholly hers. She took for granted their loyalty, trusted
them utterly, and so made it difficult for them to be other than true
men.
That night Mrs. Mavor’s large storeroom, which had been fitted up with
seats, was crowded with miners when Mr. Craig and I entered.
After a glance over the crowd, Craig said, ‘There’s the manager; that
means war.’ And I saw a tall man, very fair, whose chin fell away to
the vanishing point, and whose hair was parted in the middle, talking
to Mrs. Mavor. She was dressed in some rich soft stuff that became her
well. She was looking beautiful as ever, but there was something quite
new in her manner. Her air of good-fellowship was gone, and she was
the high-bred lady, whose gentle dignity and sweet grace, while very
winning, made familiarity impossible.
The manager was doing his best, and appeared to be well pleased with
himself. ‘She’ll get him if any one can. I failed,’ said Craig.
I stood looking at the men, and a fine lot of fellows they were. Free,
easy, bold in their bearing, they gave no sign of rudeness; and, from
their frequent glances toward Mrs. Mavor, I could see they were always
conscious of her presence. No men are so truly gentle as are the
Westerners in the presence of a good woman. They were evidently of
all classes and ranks originally, but now, and in this country of real
measurements, they ranked simply according to the ‘man’ in them. ‘See
that handsome, young chap of dissipated appearance?’ said Craig; ‘that’s
Vernon Winton, an Oxford graduate, blue blood, awfully plucky, but quite
gone. When he gets repentant, instead of shooting himself, he comes to
Mrs. Mavor. Fact.’
‘From Oxford University to Black Rock mining camp is something of a
step,’ I replied.
‘That queer-looking little chap in the corner is Billy Breen. How in
the world has he got here?’ went on Mr. Craig. Queer-looking he was. A
little man, with a small head set on heavy square shoulders, long
arms, and huge hands that sprawled all over his body; altogether a most
ungainly specimen of humanity.
By this time Mrs. Mavor had finished with the manager, and was in the
centre of a group of miners. Her grand air was all gone, and she was
their comrade, their friend, one of themselves. Nor did she assume the
role of entertainer, but rather did she, with half-shy air, cast herself
upon their chivalry, and they were too truly gentlemen to fail her. It
is hard to make Western men, and especially old-timers, talk. But
this gift was hers, and it stirred my admiration to see her draw on a
grizzled veteran to tell how, twenty years ago, he had crossed the Great
Divide, and had seen and done what no longer fell to men to see or do
in these new days. And so she won the old-timer. But it was beautiful to
see the innocent guile with which she caught Billy Breen, and drew him
to her corner near the organ. What she was saying I knew not, but poor
Billy was protesting, waving his big hands.
The meeting came to order, with Shaw in the chair, and the handsome
young Oxford man secretary. Shaw stated the object of the meeting in a
few halting words; but when he came to speak of the pleasure he and all
felt in being together in that room, his words flowed in a stream, warm
and full. Then there was a pause, and Mr. Craig was called. But he knew
better than to speak at that point. Finally Nixon rose hesitatingly;
but, as he caught a bright smile from Mrs. Mavor, he straightened
himself as if for a fight.
‘I ain’t no good at makin’ speeches,’ he began; ‘but it ain’t speeches
we want. We’ve got somethin’ to do, and what we want to know is how to
do it. And to be right plain, we want to know how to drive this cursed
whisky out of Black Rock. You all know what it’s doing for us--at least
for some of us. And it’s time to stop it now, or for some of us it’ll
mighty soon be too late. And the only way to stop its work is to quit
drinkin’ it and help others to quit. I hear some talk of a League, and
what I say is, if it’s a League out and out against whisky, a Total
Abstinence right to the ground, then I’m with it--that’s my talk--I move
we make that kind of League.’
Nixon sat down amid cheers and a chorus of remarks, ‘Good man!’ ‘That’s
the talk!’ ‘Stay with it!’ but he waited for the smile and the glance
that came to him from the beautiful face in the corner, and with that he
seemed content.
Again there was silence. Then the secretary rose with a slight flush
upon his handsome, delicate face, and seconded the motion. If they would
pardon a personal reference he would give them his reasons. He had come
to this country to make his fortune; now he was anxious to make enough
to enable him to go home with some degree of honour. His home held
everything that was dear to him. Between him and that home, between him
and all that was good and beautiful and honourable, stood whisky. ‘I am
ashamed to confess,’ and the flush deepened on his cheek, and his lips
grew thinner, ‘that I feel the need of some such league.’ His handsome
face, his perfect style of address, learned possibly in the ‘Union,’
but, more than all, his show of nerve--for these men knew how to value
that--made a strong impression on his audience; but there were no
following cheers.
Mr. Craig appeared hopeful; but on Mrs. Mavor’s face there was a look of
wistful, tender pity, for she knew how much the words had cost the lad.
Then up rose a sturdy, hard-featured man, with a burr in his voice
that proclaimed his birth. His name was George Crawford, I afterwards
learned, but every one called him Geordie. He was a character in his
way, fond of his glass; but though he was never known to refuse a drink,
he was never known to be drunk. He took his drink, for the most part,
with bread and cheese in his own shack, or with a friend or two in a
sober, respectable way, but never could be induced to join the wild
carousals in Slavin’s saloon. He made the highest wages, but was far too
true a Scot to spend his money recklessly. Every one waited eagerly
to hear Geordie’s mind. He spoke solemnly, as befitted a Scotsman
expressing a deliberate opinion, and carefully, as if choosing his best
English, for when Geordie became excited no one in Black Rock could
understand him.
‘Maister Chairman,’ said Geordie, ‘I’m aye for temperance in a’ things.’
There was a shout of laughter, at which Geordie gazed round in pained
surprise. ‘I’ll no’ deny,’ he went on in an explanatory tone, ‘that I
tak ma mornin’, an’ maybe a nip at noon; an’ a wee drap aifter wark in
the evenin’, an’ whiles a sip o’ toddy wi’ a freen thae cauld nichts.
But I’m no’ a guzzler, an’ I dinna gang in wi’ thae loons flingin’ aboot
guid money.’
‘And that’s thrue for you, me bye,’ interrupted a rich Irish brogue, to
the delight of the crowd and the amazement of Geordie, who went calmly
on--
‘An’ I canna bide yon saloon whaur they sell sic awfu’-like stuff--it’s
mair like lye nor guid whisky,--and whaur ye’re never sure o’ yer richt
change. It’s an awfu’-like place; man!’--and Geordie began to warm
up--‘ye can juist smell the sulphur when ye gang in. But I dinna care
aboot thae Temperance Soceeities, wi’ their pledges an’ havers; an’
I canna see what hairm can come till a man by takin’ a bottle o’ guid
Glenlivet hame wi’ him. I canna bide thae teetotal buddies.’
Geordie’s speech was followed by loud applause, partly appreciative of
Geordie himself, but largely sympathetic with his position.
Two or three men followed in the same strain advocating a league for
mutual improvement and social purposes, but without the teetotal pledge;
they were against the saloon, but didn’t see why they should not take a
drink now and then.
Finally the manager rose to support his ‘friend, Mistah--ah--Cwafoad,’
ridiculing the idea of a total abstinence pledge as fanatical and indeed
‘absuad.’ He was opposed to the saloon, and would like to see a club
formed, with a comfortable club-room, books, magazines, pictures, games,
anything, ‘dontcheknow, to make the time pass pleasantly’; but it was
‘absuad to ask men to abstain fwom a pwopah use of--aw--nouwishing
dwinks,’ because some men made beasts of themselves. He concluded by
offering $50.00 towards the support of such a club.
The current of feeling was setting strongly against the total abstinence
idea, and Craig’s face was hard and his eyes gleamed like coals. Then he
did a bit of generalship. He proposed that since they had the two plans
clearly before them they should take a few minutes’ intermission in
which to make up their minds, and he was sure they would be glad to have
Mrs. Mavor sing. In the interval the men talked in groups, eagerly, even
fiercely, hampered seriously in the forceful expression of their opinion
by the presence of Mrs. Mavor, who glided from group to group, dropping
a word here and a smile there. She reminded me of a general riding along
the ranks, bracing his men for the coming battle. She paused beside
Geordie, spoke earnestly for a few moments, while Geordie gazed solemnly
at her, and then she came back to Billy in the corner near me. What she
was saying I could not hear, but poor Billy was protesting, spreading
his hands out aimlessly before him, but gazing at her the while in
dumb admiration. Then she came to me. ‘Poor Billy, he was good to my
husband,’ she said softly, ‘and he has a good heart.’
‘He’s not much to look at,’ I could not help saying.
‘The oyster hides its pearl,’ she answered, a little reproachfully.
‘The shell is apparent enough,’ I replied, for the mischief was in me.
‘Ah yes,’ she replied softly, ‘but it is the pearl we love.’
I moved over beside Billy, whose eyes were following Mrs. Mavor as she
went to speak to Mr. Craig. ‘Well,’ I said; ‘you all seem to have a high
opinion of her.’
‘An ‘igh hopinion,’ he replied, in deep scorn. ‘An ‘igh hopinion, you
calls it.’
‘What would you call it?’ I asked, wishing to draw him out.
‘Oi don’t call it nothink,’ he replied, spreading out his rough hands.
‘She seems very nice,’ I said indifferently.
He drew his eyes away from Mrs. Mavor, and gave attention to me for the
first time.
‘Nice!’ he repeated with fine contempt; and then he added impressively,
‘Them as don’t know shouldn’t say nothink.’
‘You are right,’ I answered earnestly, ‘and I am quite of your opinion.’