and opened his heart to me. He told me, in his quaint speech, how again
and again she had taken him in and nursed him, and encouraged him, and
sent him out with a new heart for his battle, until, for very shame’s
sake at his own miserable weakness, he had kept out of her way for many
months, going steadily down.
‘Now, oi hain’t got no grip; but when she says to me to-night, says
she, “Oh, Billy”--she calls me Billy to myself’ (this with a touch of
pride)--‘“oh, Billy,” says she, “we must ‘ave a total habstinence league
to-night, and oi want you to ‘elp!” and she keeps a-lookin’ at me with
those heyes o’ hern till, if you believe me, sir,’ lowering his voice to
an emphatic whisper, ‘though oi knowed oi couldn’t ‘elp none, afore oi
knowed oi promised ‘er oi would. It’s ‘er heyes. When them heyes says
“do,” hup you steps and “does.”’
I remembered my first look into her eyes, and I could quite understand
Billy’s submission. Just as she began to sing I went over to Geordie and
took my seat beside him. She began with an English slumber song,
‘Sleep, Baby, Sleep’--one of Barry Cornwall’s, I think,--and then sang
a love-song with the refrain, ‘Love once again’; but no thrills came to
me, and I began to wonder if her spell over me was broken. Geordie, who
had been listening somewhat indifferently, encouraged me, however, by
saying, ‘She’s just pittin’ aff time with thae feckless sangs; man,
there’s nae grup till them.’ But when, after a few minutes’ pause,
she began ‘My Ain Fireside,’ Geordie gave a sigh of satisfaction. ‘Ay,
that’s somethin’ like,’ and when she finished the first verse he gave me
a dig in the ribs with his elbow that took my breath away, saying in a
whisper, ‘Man, hear till yon, wull ye?’ And again I found the spell
upon me. It was not the voice after all, but the great soul behind that
thrilled and compelled. She was seeing, feeling, living what she sang,
and her voice showed us her heart. The cosy fireside, with its bonnie,
blithe blink, where no care could abide, but only peace and love, was
vividly present to her, and as she sang we saw it too. When she came to
the last verse--
‘When I draw in my stool
On my cosy hearth-stane,
My heart loups sae licht
I scarce ken’t for my ain,’
there was a feeling of tears in the flowing song, and we knew the words
had brought her a picture of the fireside that would always seem empty.
I felt the tears in my eyes, and, wondering at myself, I cast a stealthy
glance at the men about me; and I saw that they, too, were looking
through their hearts’ windows upon firesides and ingle-neuks that
gleamed from far.
And then she sang ‘The Auld Hoose,’ and Geordie, giving me another
poke, said, ‘That’s ma ain sang,’ and when I asked him what he meant,
he whispered fiercely, ‘Wheesht, man!’ and I did, for his face looked
dangerous.
In a pause between the verses I heard Geordie saying to himself, ‘Ay, I
maun gie it up, I doot.’
‘What?’ I ventured.
‘Naething ava.’ And then he added impatiently, ‘Man, but ye’re an
inqueesitive buddie,’ after which I subsided into silence.
Immediately upon the meeting being called to order, Mr. Craig made his
speech, and it was a fine bit of work. Beginning with a clear statement
of the object in view, he set in contrast the two kinds of leagues
proposed. One, a league of men who would take whisky in moderation; the
other, a league of men who were pledged to drink none themselves, and to
prevent in every honourable way others from drinking. There was no long
argument, but he spoke at white heat; and as he appealed to the men
to think, each not of himself alone, but of the others as well, the
yearning, born of his long months of desire and of toil, vibrated in
his voice and reached to the heart. Many men looked uncomfortable and
uncertain, and even the manager looked none too cheerful.
At this critical moment the crowd got a shock. Billy Breen shuffled
out to the front, and, in a voice shaking with nervousness and emotion,
began to speak, his large, coarse hands wandering tremulously about.
‘Oi hain’t no bloomin’ temperance horator, and mayhap oi hain’t no right
to speak ‘ere, but oi got somethin’ to saigh (say) and oi’m agoin’ to
saigh it.
‘Parson, ‘ee says is it wisky or no wisky in this ‘ere club? If ye
hask me, wich (which) ye don’t, then no wisky, says oi; and if ye hask
why?--look at me! Once oi could mine more coal than hany man in the
camp; now oi hain’t fit to be a sorter. Once oi ‘ad some pride and
hambition; now oi ‘angs round awaitin’ for some one to saigh, “Ere,
Billy, ‘ave summat.” Once oi made good paigh (pay), and sent it ‘ome
regular to my poor old mother (she’s in the wukus now, she is); oi
hain’t sent ‘er hany for a year and a ‘alf. Once Billy was a good fellow
and ‘ad plenty o’ friends; now Slavin ‘isself kicks un hout, ‘ee does.
Why? why?’ His voice rose to a shriek. ‘Because when Billy ‘ad money
in ‘is pocket, hevery man in this bloomin’ camp as meets un at hevery
corner says, “‘Ello, Billy, wat’ll ye ‘ave?” And there’s wisky at
Slavin’s, and there’s wisky in the shacks, and hevery ‘oliday and hevery
Sunday there’s wisky, and w’en ye feel bad it’s wisky, and w’en ye feel
good it’s wisky, and heverywhere and halways it’s wisky, wisky, wisky!
And now ye’re goin’ to stop it, and ‘ow? T’ manager, ‘ee says picters
and magazines. ‘Ee takes ‘is wine and ‘is beer like a gentleman, ‘ee
does, and ‘ee don’t ‘ave no use for Billy Breen. Billy, ‘ee’s a beast,
and t’ manager, ‘ee kicks un hout. But supposin’ Billy wants to stop
bein’ a beast, and starts a-tryin’ to be a man again, and w’en ‘ee
gets good an’ dry, along comes some un and says, “‘Ello, Billy, ‘ave a
smile,” it hain’t picters nor magazines ‘ud stop un then. Picters and
magazines! Gawd ‘elp the man as hain’t nothin’ but picters and magazines
to ‘elp un w’en ‘ee’s got a devil hinside and a devil houtside a-shovin’
and a-drawin’ of un down to ‘ell. And that’s w’ere oi’m a-goin’
straight, and yer bloomin’ League, wisky or no wisky, can’t help me.
But,’ and he lifted his trembling hands above his head, ‘if ye stop the
wisky a-flowin’ round this camp, ye’ll stop some of these lads that’s
a-followin’ me ‘ard. Yes, you! and you! and you!’ and his voice rose to
a wild scream as he shook a trembling finger at one and another.
‘Man, it’s fair gruesome tae hear him,’ said Geordie; ‘he’s no’ canny’;
and reaching out for Billy as he went stumbling past, he pulled him down
to a seat beside him, saying, ‘Sit doon, lad, sit doon. We’ll mak a man
o’ ye yet.’ Then he rose and, using many r’s, said, ‘Maister Chairman,
a’ doot we’ll juist hae to gie it up.’
‘Give it up?’ called out Nixon. ‘Give up the League?’
‘Na! na! lad, but juist the wee drap whusky. It’s nae that guid onyway,
and it’s a terrible price. Man, gin ye gang tae Henderson’s in Buchanan
Street, in Gleska, ye ken, ye’ll get mair for three-an’-saxpence than
ye wull at Slavin’s for five dollars. An’ it’ll no’ pit ye mad like yon
stuff, but it gangs doon smooth an’ saft-like. But’ (regretfully) ‘ye’ll
no’ can get it here; an’ a’m thinkin’ a’ll juist sign yon teetotal
thing.’ And up he strode to the table and put his name down in the book
Craig had ready. Then to Billy he said, ‘Come’ awa, lad! pit yer name
doon, an’ we’ll stan’ by ye.’
Poor Billy looked around helplessly, his nerve all gone, and sat still.
There was a swift rustle of garments, and Mrs. Mavor was beside him,
and, in a voice that only Billy and I could hear, said, ‘You’ll sign
with, me, Billy?’
Billy gazed at her with a hopeless look in his eyes, and shook his
little, head. She leaned slightly toward him, smiling brightly, and,
touching his arm gently, said--
‘Come, Billy, there’s no fear,’ and in a lower voice, ‘God will help
you.’
As Billy went up, following Mrs. Mavor close, a hush fell on the men
until he had put his name to the pledge; then they came up, man by
man, and signed. But Craig sat with his head down till I touched his
shoulder. He took my hand and held it fast, saying over and over, under
his breath, ‘Thank God, thank God!’
And so the League was made.
CHAPTER VI
BLACK ROCK RELIGION
When I grow weary with the conventions of religion, and sick in my soul
from feeding upon husks, that the churches too often offer me, in
the shape of elaborate service and eloquent discourses, so that in my
sickness I doubt and doubt, then I go back to the communion in Black
Rock and the days preceding it, and the fever and the weariness leave
me, and I grow humble and strong. The simplicity and rugged grandeur of
the faith, the humble gratitude of the rough men I see about the table,
and the calm radiance of one saintly face, rest and recall me.
Not its most enthusiastic apologist would call Black Rock a religious
community, but it possessed in a marked degree that eminent Christian
virtue of tolerance. All creeds, all shades of religious opinion, were
allowed, and it was generally conceded that one was as good as another.
It is fair to say, however, that Black Rock’s catholicity was negative
rather than positive. The only religion objectionable was that insisted
upon as a necessity. It never occurred to any one to consider religion
other than as a respectable, if not ornamental, addition to life in
older lands.
During the weeks following the making of the League, however, this
negative attitude towards things religious gave place to one of keen
investigation and criticism. The indifference passed away, and with it,
in a large measure, the tolerance. Mr. Craig was responsible for the
former of these changes, but hardly, in fairness, could he be held
responsible for the latter. If any one, more than another, was to be
blamed for the rise of intolerance in the village, that man was Geordie
Crawford. He had his ‘lines’ from the Established Kirk of Scotland, and
when Mr. Craig announced his intention of having the Sacrament of the
Lord’s Supper observed, Geordie produced his ‘lines’ and promptly handed
them in. As no other man in the village was equipped with like spiritual
credentials, Geordie constituted himself a kind of kirk-session, charged
with the double duty of guarding the entrance to the Lord’s Table, and
of keeping an eye upon the theological opinions of the community, and
more particularly upon such members of it as gave evidence of possessing
any opinions definite enough for statement.
It came to be Mr. Craig’s habit to drop into the League-room, and toward
the close of the evening to have a short Scripture lesson from the
Gospels. Geordie’s opportunity came after the meeting was over and Mr.
Craig had gone away. The men would hang about and talk the lesson over,
expressing opinions favourable or unfavourable as appeared to them good.
Then it was that all sorts of views, religious and otherwise, were aired
and examined. The originality of the ideas, the absolute disregard of
the authority of church or creed, the frankness with which opinions
were stated, and the forcefulness of the language in which they were
expressed, combined to make the discussions altogether marvellous.
The passage between Abe Baker, the stage-driver, and Geordie was
particularly rich. It followed upon a very telling lesson on the parable
of the Pharisee and the Publican.
The chief actors in that wonderful story were transferred to the Black
Rock stage, and were presented in miner’s costume. Abe was particularly
well pleased with the scoring of the ‘blanked old rooster who crowed so
blanked high,’ and somewhat incensed at the quiet remark interjected by
Geordie, ‘that it was nae credit till a man tae be a sinner’; and
when Geordie went on to urge the importance of right conduct and
respectability, Abe was led to pour forth vials of contemptuous wrath
upon the Pharisees and hypocrites who thought themselves better
than other people. But Geordie was quite unruffled, and lamented
the ignorance of men who, brought up in ‘Epeescopawlyun or Methody’
churches, could hardly be expected to detect the Antinomian or Arminian
heresies.
‘Aunty Nomyun or Uncle Nomyun,’ replied Abe, boiling hot, ‘my mother was
a Methodist, and I’ll back any blanked Methodist against any blankety
blank long-faced, lantern-jawed, skinflint Presbyterian,’ and this
he was eager to maintain to any man’s satisfaction if he would step
outside.
Geordie was quite unmoved, but hastened to assure Abe that he meant
no disrespect to his mother, who he had ‘nae doot was a clever enough
buddie, tae judge by her son.’ Abe was speedily appeased, and offered to
set up the drinks all round. But Geordie, with evident reluctance, had
to decline, saying, ‘Na, na, lad, I’m a League man ye ken,’ and I was
sure that Geordie at that moment felt that membership in the League had
its drawbacks.
Nor was Geordie too sure of Craig’s orthodoxy; while as to Mrs. Mavor,
whose slave he was, he was in the habit of lamenting her doctrinal
condition--
‘She’s a fine wumman, nae doot; but, puir cratur, she’s fair carried awa
wi’ the errors o’ thae Epeescopawlyuns.’
It fell to Geordie, therefore, as a sacred duty, in view of the laxity
of those who seemed to be the pillars of the Church, to be all the
more watchful and unyielding. But he was delightfully inconsistent when
confronted with particulars. In conversation with him one night after
one of the meetings, when he had been specially hard upon the ignorant
and godless, I innocently changed the subject to Billy Breen, whom
Geordie had taken to his shack since the night of the League. He was
very proud of Billy’s success in the fight against whisky, the credit of
which he divided unevenly between Mrs. Mavor and himself.
‘He’s fair daft aboot her,’ he explained to me, ‘an’ I’ll no’ deny but
she’s a great help, ay, a verra conseederable asseestance; but, man, she
doesna ken the whusky, an’ the inside o’ a man that’s wantin’ it. Ay,
puir buddie, she diz her pairt, an’ when ye’re a bit restless an thrawn
aifter yer day’s wark, it’s like a walk in a bonnie glen on a simmer
eve, with the birds liltin’ aboot, tae sit in yon roomie and hear her
sing; but when the night is on, an’ ye canna sleep, but wauken wi’ an’
awfu’ thurst and wi’ dreams o’ cosy firesides, and the bonnie sparklin’
glosses, as it is wi’ puir Billy, ay, it’s then ye need a man wi’ a guid
grup beside ye.’
‘What do you do then, Geordie?’ I asked.
‘Oo ay, I juist gang for a bit walk wi’ the lad, and then pits the
kettle on an’ maks a cup o’ tea or coffee, an’ aff he gangs tae sleep
like a bairn.’
‘Poor Billy,’ I said pityingly, ‘there’s no hope for him in the future,
I fear.’
‘Hoot awa, man,’ said Geordie quickly. ‘Ye wadna keep oot a puir cratur
frae creepin’ in, that’s daein’ his best?’
‘But, Geordie,’ I remonstrated, ‘he doesn’t know anything of the
doctrines. I don’t believe he could give us “The Chief End of Man.”’
‘An’ wha’s tae blame for that?’ said Geordie, with fine indignation.
‘An’ maybe you remember the prood Pharisee and the puir wumman that cam’
creepin’ in ahint the Maister.’
The mingled tenderness and indignation in Geordie’s face were beautiful
to see, so I meekly answered, ‘Well, I hope Mr. Craig won’t be too
strict with the boys.’
Geordie shot a suspicious glance at me, but I kept my face like a summer
morn, and he replied cautiously--
‘Ay, he’s no’ that streect: but he maun exerceese discreemination.’
Geordie was none the less determined, however, that Billy should ‘come
forrit’; but as to the manager, who was a member of the English Church,
and some others who had been confirmed years ago, and had forgotten much
and denied more, he was extremely doubtful, and expressed himself in
very decided words to the minister--
‘Ye’ll no’ be askin’ forrit thae Epeescopawlyun buddies. They juist ken
naething ava.’
But Mr. Craig looked at him for a moment and said, “Him that cometh
unto Me I will in no wise cast out,”’ and Geordie was silent, though he
continued doubtful.
With all these somewhat fantastic features, however, there was no
mistaking the earnest spirit of the men. The meetings grew larger
every night, and the interest became more intense. The singing became
different. The men no longer simply shouted, but as Mr. Craig would
call attention to the sentiment of the hymn, the voices would attune
themselves to the words. Instead of encouraging anything like emotional
excitement, Mr. Craig seemed to fear it.
‘These chaps are easily stirred up,’ he would say, ‘and I am anxious
that they should know exactly what they are doing. It is far too serious
a business to trifle with.’
Although Graeme did not go downstairs to the meetings, he could not but
feel the throb of the emotion beating in the heart of the community.
I used to detail for his benefit, and sometimes for his amusement, the
incidents of each night. But I never felt quite easy in dwelling upon
the humorous features in Mrs. Mavor’s presence, although Craig did not
appear to mind. His manner with Graeme was perfect. Openly anxious to
win him to his side, he did not improve the occasion and vex him with
exhortation. He would not take him at a disadvantage, though, as I
afterwards found, this was not his sole reason for his method. Mrs.
Mavor, too, showed herself in wise and tender light. She might have been
his sister, so frank was she and so openly affectionate, laughing at his
fretfulness and soothing his weariness.
Never were better comrades than we four, and the bright days speeding so
swiftly on drew us nearer to one another.
But the bright days came to an end; for Graeme, when once he was able
to go about, became anxious to get back to the camp. And so the last day
came, a day I remember well. It was a bright, crisp winter day.
The air was shimmering in the frosty light. The mountains, with their
shining heads piercing through light clouds into that wonderful blue of
the western sky, and their feet pushed into the pine masses, gazed down
upon Black Rock with calm, kindly looks on their old grey faces. How
one grows to love them, steadfast old friends! Far up among the pines
we could see the smoke of the engine at the works, and so still and so
clear was the mountain air that we could hear the puff of the steam, and
from far down the river the murmur of the rapids. The majestic silence,
the tender beauty, the peace, the loneliness, too, came stealing in upon
us, as we three, leaving Mrs. Mavor behind us, marched arm-in-arm down
the street. We had not gone far on our way, when Graeme, turning round,
stood a moment looking back, then waved his hand in farewell. Mrs. Mavor
was at her window, smiling and waving in return. They had grown to
be great friends these two; and seemed to have arrived at some
understanding. Certainly, Graeme’s manner to her was not that he bore
to other women. His half-quizzical, somewhat superior air of mocking
devotion gave place to a simple, earnest, almost tender, respect, very
new to him, but very winning.
As he stood there waving his farewell, I glanced at his face and saw for
a moment what I had not seen for years, a faint flush on Graeme’s cheek
and a light of simple, earnest faith in his eyes. It reminded me of
my first look of him when he had come up for his matriculation to the
‘Varsity. He stood on the campus looking up at the noble old pile, and
there was the same bright, trustful, earnest look on his boyish face.
I know not what spirit possessed me; it may have been the pain of the
memory working in me, but I said, coarsely enough, ‘It’s no use, Graeme,
my boy; I would fall in love with her myself, but there would be no
chance even for me.’
The flush slowly darkened as he turned and said deliberately--
‘It’s not like you, Connor, to be an ass of that peculiar kind.
Love!--not exactly! She won’t fall in love unless--’ and he stopped
abruptly with his eyes upon Craig.
But Craig met him with unshrinking gaze, quietly remarking, ‘Her heart
is under the pines’; and we moved on, each thinking his own thoughts,
and guessing at the thoughts of the others.
We were on our way to Craig’s shack, and as we passed the saloon Slavin
stepped from the door with a salutation. Graeme paused. ‘Hello, Slavin!
I got rather the worst of it, didn’t I?’
Slavin came near, and said earnestly, ‘It was a dirty thrick altogether;
you’ll not think it was moine, Mr. Graeme.’
‘No, no, Slavin! you stood up like a man,’ said Graeme cheerfully.
‘And you bate me fair; an’ bedad it was a nate one that laid me out; an’
there’s no grudge in me heart till ye.’
‘All right, Slavin; we’ll perhaps understand each other better after
this.’
‘An’ that’s thrue for yez, sor; an’ I’ll see that your byes don’t get
any more than they ask for,’ replied Slavin, backing away.
‘And I hope that won’t be much,’ put in Mr. Craig; but Slavin only
grinned.
When we came to Craig’s shack Graeme was glad to rest in the big chair.
Craig made him a cup of tea, while I smoked, admiring much the deft
neatness of the minister’s housekeeping, and the gentle, almost
motherly, way he had with Graeme.
In our talk we drifted into the future, and Craig let us see what were
his ambitions. The railway was soon to come; the resources were, as yet,
unexplored, but enough was known to assure a great future for British
Columbia. As he talked his enthusiasm grew, and carried us away. With
the eye of a general he surveyed the country, fixed the strategic points
which the Church must seize upon. Eight good men would hold the country
from Fort Steele to the coast, and from Kootenay to Cariboo.
‘The Church must be in with the railway; she must have a hand in the
shaping of the country. If society crystallises without her influence,
the country is lost, and British Columbia will be another trap-door to
the bottomless pit.’
‘What do you propose?’ I asked.
‘Organising a little congregation here in Black Rock.’
‘How many will you get?’
‘Don’t know.’
‘Pretty hopeless business,’ I said.
‘Hopeless! hopeless!’ he cried; ‘there were only twelve of us at first
to follow Him, and rather a poor lot they were. But He braced them up,
and they conquered the world.’
‘But surely things are different,’ said Graeme.
‘Things? Yes! yes! But He is the same.’ His face had an exalted look,
and his eyes were gazing into far-away places.
‘A dozen men in Black Rock with some real grip of Him would make things
go. We’ll get them, too,’ he went on in growing excitement. ‘I believe
in my soul we’ll get them.’
‘Look here, Craig; if you organise I’d like to join,’ said Graeme
impulsively. ‘I don’t believe much in your creed or your Church, but
I’ll be blowed if I don’t believe in you.’
Craig looked at him with wistful eyes, and shook his head. ‘It won’t do,
old chap, you know. I can’t hold you. You’ve got to have a grip of some
one better than I am; and then, besides, I hardly like asking you now’;
he hesitated--‘well, to be out-and-out, this step must be taken not for
my sake, nor for any man’s sake, and I fancy that perhaps you feel like
pleasing me just now a little.’
‘That I do, old fellow,’ said Graeme, putting out his hand. ‘I’ll be
hanged if I won’t do anything you say.’
‘That’s why I won’t say,’ replied Craig. Then reverently he added, ‘the
organisation is not mine. It is my Master’s.’
‘When are you going to begin?’ asked Graeme.
‘We shall have our communion service in two weeks, and that will be our
roll-call.’
‘How many will answer?’ I asked doubtfully.
‘I know of three,’ he said quietly.
‘Three! There are two hundred miners and one hundred and fifty
lumbermen! Three!’ and Graeme looked at him in amazement. ‘You think it
worth while to organise three?’
‘Well,’ replied Craig, smiling for the first time, ‘the organisation
won’t be elaborate, but it will be effective, and, besides, loyalty
demands obedience.’
We sat long that afternoon talking, shrinking from the breaking up; for
we knew that we were about to turn down a chapter in our lives which we
should delight to linger over in after days. And in my life there is but
one brighter. At last we said good-bye and drove away; and though many
farewells have come in between that day and this, none is so vividly
present to me as that between us three men. Craig’s manner with me was
solemn enough. ‘“He that loveth his life”; good-bye, don’t fool with
this,’ was what he said to me. But when he turned to Graeme his whole
face lit up. He took him by the shoulders and gave him a little shake,
looking into his eyes, and saying over and over in a low, sweet tone--
‘You’ll come, old chap, you’ll come, you’ll come. Tell me you’ll come.’
And Graeme could say nothing in reply, but only looked at him. Then they
silently shook hands, and we drove off. But long after we had got
over the mountain and into the winding forest road on the way to the
lumber-camp the voice kept vibrating in my heart, ‘You’ll come, you’ll
come,’ and there was a hot pain in my throat.
We said little during the drive to the camp. Graeme was thinking hard,
and made no answer when I spoke to him two or three times, till we came
to the deep shadows of the pine forest, when with a little shiver he
said--
‘It is all a tangle--a hopeless tangle.’
‘Meaning what?’ I asked.
‘This business of religion--what quaint varieties--Nelson’s, Geordie’s,
Billy Breen’s--if he has any--then Mrs. Mavor’s--she is a saint, of
course--and that fellow Craig’s. What a trump he is!--and without his
religion he’d be pretty much like the rest of us. It is too much for
me.’
His mystery was not mine. The Black Rock varieties of religion were
certainly startling; but there was undoubtedly the streak of reality
though them all, and that discovery I felt to be a distinct gain.
CHAPTER VII
THE FIRST BLACK ROCK COMMUNION
The gleam of the great fire through the windows of the great camp gave
a kindly welcome as we drove into the clearing in which the shanties
stood. Graeme was greatly touched at his enthusiastic welcome by the
men. At the supper-table he made a little speech of thanks for their
faithfulness during his absence, specially commending the care and
efficiency of Mr. Nelson, who had had charge of the camp. The men
cheered wildly, Baptiste’s shrill voice leading all. Nelson being called
upon, expressed in a few words his pleasure at seeing the Boss back, and
thanked the men for their support while he had been in charge.
The men were for making a night of it; but fearing the effect upon
Graeme, I spoke to Nelson, who passed the word, and in a short time the
camp was quiet. As we sauntered from the grub-camp to the office where
was our bed, we paused to take in the beauty of the night. The moon rode
high over the peaks of the mountains, flooding the narrow valley with
mellow light. Under her magic the rugged peaks softened their harsh
lines and seemed to lean lovingly toward us. The dark pine masses stood
silent as in breathless adoration; the dazzling snow lay like a garment
over all the open spaces in soft, waving folds, and crowned every stump
with a quaintly shaped nightcap. Above the camps the smoke curled up
from the camp-fires, standing like pillars of cloud that kept watch
while men slept. And high over all the deep blue night sky, with its
star jewels, sprang like the roof of a great cathedral from range to
range, covering us in its kindly shelter. How homelike and safe seemed
the valley with its mountain-sides, its sentinel trees and arching roof
of jewelled sky! Even the night seemed kindly, and friendly the stars;
and the lone cry of the wolf from the deep forest seemed like the voice
of a comrade.
‘How beautiful! too beautiful!’ said Graeme, stretching out his arms. ‘A
night like this takes the heart out of me.’
I stood silent, drinking in at every sense the night with its wealth of
loveliness.
‘What is it I want?’ he went on. ‘Why does the night make my heart ache?
There are things to see and things to hear just beyond me; I cannot get
to them.’ The gay, careless look was gone from his face, his dark eyes
were wistful with yearning.
‘I often wonder if life has nothing better for me,’ he continued with
his heartache voice.
I said no word, but put my arm within his. A light appeared in the
stable. Glad of a diversion, I said, ‘What is the light? Let us go and
see.’
‘Sandy, taking a last look at his team, like enough.’
We walked slowly toward the stable, speaking no word. As we neared the
door we heard the sound of a voice in the monotone of one reading. I
stepped forward and looked through a chink between the logs. Graeme was
about to open the door, but I held up my hand and beckoned him to me. In
a vacant stall, where was a pile of straw, a number of men were grouped.
Sandy, leaning against the tying-post upon which the stable-lantern
hung, was reading; Nelson was kneeling in front of him and gazing into
the gloom beyond; Baptiste lay upon his stomach, his chin in his hands
and his upturned eyes fastened upon Sandy’s face; Lachlan Campbell sat
with his hands clasped about his knees, and two other men sat near him.
Sandy was reading the undying story of the Prodigal, Nelson now and then
stopping him to make a remark. It was a scene I have never been able
to forget. To-day I pause in my tale, and see it as clearly as when I
looked through the chink upon it years ago. The long, low stable, with
log walls and upright hitching-poles; the dim outlines of the horses
in the gloom of the background, and the little group of rough, almost
savage-looking men, with faces wondering and reverent, lit by the misty
light of the stable-lantern.
After the reading, Sandy handed the book to Nelson, who put it in his
pocket, saying, ‘That’s for us, boys, ain’t it?’
‘Ay,’ said Lachlan; ‘it is often that has been read in my hearing, but
I am afraid it will not be for me whatever,’ and he swayed himself
slightly as he spoke, and his voice was full of pain.
‘The minister said I might come,’ said old Nelson, earnestly and
hopefully.
‘Ay, but you are not Lachlan Campbell, and you hef not had his
privileges. My father was a godly elder in the Free Church of Scotland,
and never a night or morning but we took the Books.’
‘Yes, but He said “any man,”’ persisted Nelson, putting his hand on
Lachlan’s knee. But Lachlan shook his head.
‘Dat young feller,’ said Baptiste; ‘wha’s hees nem, heh?’
‘He has no name. It is just a parable,’ explained Sandy.
‘He’s got no nem? He’s just a parom’ble? Das no young feller?’ asked
Baptiste anxiously; ‘das mean noting?’
Then Nelson took him in hand and explained to him the meaning, while
Baptiste listened even more eagerly, ejaculating softly, ‘ah, voila!
bon! by gar!’ When Nelson had finished he broke out, ‘Dat young feller,
his name Baptiste, heh? and de old Fadder he’s le bon Dieu? Bon! das
good story for me. How you go back? You go to de pries’?’
‘The book doesn’t say priest or any one else,’ said Nelson. ‘You go back
in yourself, you see?’
‘Non; das so, sure nuff. Ah!’--as if a light broke in upon him--‘you go
in your own self. You make one leetle prayer. You say, “Le bon Fadder,
oh! I want come back, I so tire, so hongree, so sorree”? He, say, “Come
right ‘long.” Ah! das fuss-rate. Nelson, you make one leetle prayer for
Sandy and me.’
And Nelson lifted up his face and said: ‘Father, we’re all gone far
away; we have spent all, we are poor, we are tired of it all; we want
to feel different, to be different; we want to come back. Jesus came to
save us from our sins; and he said if we came He wouldn’t cast us
out, no matter how bad we were, if we only came to Him. Oh, Jesus
Christ’--and his old, iron face began to work, and two big tears slowly
came from under his eyelids--‘we are a poor lot, and I’m the worst of
the lot, and we are trying to find the way. Show us how to get back.
Amen.’
‘Bon!’ said Baptiste. ‘Das fetch Him sure!’
Graeme pulled me away, and without a word we went into the office and
drew up to the little stove. Graeme was greatly moved.
‘Did you ever see anything like that?’ he asked. ‘Old Nelson! the
hardest, savagest, toughest old sinner in the camp, on his knees before
a lot of men!’
‘Before God,’ I could not help saying, for the thing seemed very real to
me. The old man evidently felt himself talking to some one.
‘Yes, I suppose you’re right,’ said Graeme doubtfully; ‘but there’s a
lot of stuff I can’t swallow.’
‘When you take medicine you don’t swallow the bottle,’ I replied, for
his trouble was not mine.
‘If I were sure of the medicine, I wouldn’t mind the bottle, and yet it
acts well enough,’ he went on. ‘I don’t mind Lachlan; he’s a Highland
mystic, and has visions, and Sandy’s almost as bad, and Baptiste is an
impulsive little chap. Those don’t count much. But old man Nelson is a
cool-blooded, level-headed old fellow; has seen a lot of life, too.
And then there’s Craig. He has a better head than I have, and is as
hot-blooded, and yet he is living and slaving away in that hole, and
really enjoys it. There must be something in it.’
‘Oh, look here, Graeme,’ I burst out impatiently; ‘what’s the use of
your talking like that? Of course there’s something in it. I here’s
everything in it. The trouble with me is I can’t face the music. It
calls for a life where a fellow must go in for straight, steady work,
self-denial, and that sort of thing; and I’m too Bohemian for that, and
too lazy. But that fellow Craig makes one feel horribly uncomfortable.’
Graeme put his head on one side, and examined me curiously.
‘I believe you’re right about yourself. You always were a luxurious
beggar. But that’s not where it catches me.’
We sat and smoked and talked of other things for an hour, and then
turned in. As I was dropping off I was roused by Graeme’s voice--
‘Are you going to the preparatory service on Friday night?’
‘Don’t know,’ I replied rather sleepily.
‘I say, do you remember the preparatory service at home?’ There was
something in his voice that set me wide awake.
‘Yes. Rather terrific, wasn’t it? But I always felt better after it,’ I
replied.
‘To me’--he was sitting up in bed now--‘to me it was like a call to
arms, or rather like a call for a forlorn hope. None but volunteers
wanted. Do you remember the thrill in the old governor’s voice as he
dared any but the right stuff to come on?’
‘We’ll go in on Friday night,’ I said.
And so we did. Sandy took a load of men with his team, and Graeme and I
drove in the light sleigh.
The meeting was in the church, and over a hundred men were present.
There was some singing of familiar hymns at first, and then Mr. Craig
read the same story as we had heard in the stable, that most perfect of
all parables, the Prodigal Son. Baptiste nudged Sandy in delight,
and whispered something, but Sandy held his face so absolutely
expressionless that Graeme was moved to say--
‘Look at Sandy! Did you ever see such a graven image? Something has hit
him hard.’
The men were held fast by the story. The voice of the reader, low,
earnest, and thrilling with the tender pathos of the tale, carried the
words to our hearts, while a glance, a gesture, a movement of the body
gave us the vision of it all as he was seeing it.
Then, in simplest of words, he told us what the story meant, holding us
the while with eyes, and voice, and gesture. He compelled us scorn the
gay, heartless selfishness of the young fool setting forth so jauntily
from the broken home; he moved our pity and our sympathy for the
young profligate, who, broken and deserted, had still pluck enough to
determine to work his way back, and who, in utter desperation, at last
gave it up; and then he showed us the homecoming--the ragged, heart-sick
tramp, with hesitating steps, stumbling along the dusty road, and then
the rush of the old father, his garments fluttering, and his voice heard
in broken cries. I see and hear it all now, whenever the words are read.
He announced the hymn, ‘Just as I am,’ read the first verse, and then
went on: ‘There you are, men, every man of you, somewhere on the road.
Some of you are too lazy’--here Graeme nudged me--‘and some of you
haven’t got enough yet of the far country to come back. May there be a
chance for you when you want to come! Men, you all want to go back home,
and when you go you’ll want to put on your soft clothes, and you won’t
go till you can go in good style; but where did the prodigal get his
good clothes?’ Quick came the answer in Baptiste’s shrill voice--
‘From de old fadder!’
No one was surprised, and the minister went on--
‘Yes! and that’s where we must get the good, clean heart, the good,
clean, brave heart, from our Father. Don’t wait, but, just as you are,
come. Sing.’
They sang, not loud, as they would ‘Stand Up,’ or even ‘The Sweet By and
By,’ but in voices subdued, holding down the power in them.
After the singing, Craig stood a moment gazing down at the men, and then
said quietly--
‘Any man want to come? You all might come. We all must come.’ Then,
sweeping his arm over the audience, and turning half round as if to move
off, he cried, in a voice that thrilled to the heart’s core--
‘Oh! come on! Let’s go back!’
The effect was overpowering. It seemed to me that the whole company
half rose to their feet. Of the prayer that immediately followed, I
only caught the opening sentence, ‘Father, we are coming back,’ for
my attention was suddenly absorbed by Abe, the stage-driver, who was
sitting next me. I could hear him swearing approval and admiration,
saying to himself--
‘Ain’t he a clinker! I’ll be gee-whizzly-gol-dusted if he ain’t a
malleable-iron-double-back-action self-adjusting corn-cracker.’ And
the prayer continued to be punctuated with like admiring and even
more sulphurous expletives. It was an incongruous medley. The earnest,
reverent prayer, and the earnest, admiring profanity, rendered chaotic
one’s ideas of religious propriety. The feelings in both were akin; the
method of expression somewhat widely diverse.
After prayer, Craig’s tone changed utterly. In a quiet, matter-of-fact,
businesslike way he stated his plan of organisation, and called for all
who wished to join to remain after the benediction. Some fifty men were
left, among them Nelson, Sandy, Lachlan Campbell, Baptiste, Shaw, Nixon,
Geordie, and Billy Breen, who tried to get out, but was held fast by
Geordie.
Graeme was passing out, but I signed him to remain, saying that I wished
‘to see the thing out.’ Abe sat still beside me, swearing disgustedly at
the fellows ‘who were going back on the preacher.’ Craig appeared amazed
at the number of men remaining, and seemed to fear that something was
wrong. He put before them the terms of discipleship, as the Master put
them to the eager scribe, and he did not make them easy. He pictured the
kind of work to be done, and the kind of men needed for the doing of it.
Abe grew uneasy as the minister went on to describe the completeness of
the surrender, the intensity of the loyalty demanded.
‘That knocks me out, I reckon,’ he muttered, in a disappointed tone; ‘I
ain’t up to that grade.’ And as Craig described the heroism called for,
the magnificence of the fight, the worth of it, and the outcome of it
all, Abe ground out: I’ll be blanked if I wouldn’t like to take a hand,
but I guess I’m not in it.’ Craig finished by saying--
‘I want to put this quite fairly. It is not any league of mine; you’re
not joining my company; it is no easy business, and it is for your whole
life. What do you say? Do I put it fairly? What do you say, Nelson?’
Nelson rose slowly, and with difficulty began--
‘I may be all wrong, but you made it easier for me, Mr. Craig. You said
He would see me through, or I should never have risked it. Perhaps I am
wrong,’ and the old man looked troubled. Craig sprang up.
‘No! no! Thank God, no! He will see every man through who will trust
his life to Him. Every man, no matter how tough he is, no matter how
broken.’
Then Nelson straightened himself up and said--
‘Well, sir! I believe a lot of the men would go in for this if they were
dead sure they would get through.’
‘Get through!’ said Craig; ‘never a fear of it. It is a hard fight, a
long fight, a glorious fight,’ throwing up his head, but every man
who squarely trusts Him, and takes Him as Lord and Master, comes out
victor!’
‘Bon!’ said Baptiste ‘Das me. You tink He’s take me in dat fight, M’sieu
Craig, heh?’ His eyes were blazing.
‘You mean it?’ asked Craig almost sternly.
‘Yes! by gar!’ said the little Frenchman eagerly.
‘Hear what He says, then’; and Craig, turning over the leaves of his
Testament, read solemnly the words, ‘Swear not at all.’
‘Non! For sure! Den I stop him,’ replied Baptiste earnestly; and Craig
wrote his name down.
Poor Abe looked amazed and distressed, rose slowly, and saying, ‘That
jars my whisky jug,’ passed out. There was a slight movement near the
organ, and glancing up I saw Mrs. Mavor put her face hastily in her
hands. The men’s faces were anxious and troubled, and Nelson said in a
voice that broke--
‘Tell them what you told me, sir.’ But Craig was troubled too, and
replied, ‘You tell them, Nelson!’ and Nelson told the men the story of
how he began just five weeks ago. The old man’s voice steadied as he
went on, and he grew eager as he told how he had been helped, and how
the world was all different, and his heart seemed new. He spoke of his
Friend as if He were some one that could be seen out at camp, that he
knew well, and met every day.
But as he tried to say how deeply he regretted that he had not known all
this years before, the old, hard face began to quiver, and the steady
voice wavered. Then he pulled himself together, and said--
‘I begin to feel sure He’ll pull me through--me! the hardest man in the
mountains! So don’t you fear, boys. He’s all right.’
Then the men gave in their names, one by one. When it came to Geordie’s
turn, he gave his name--
‘George Crawford, frae the pairish o’ Kilsyth, Scotland, an’ ye’ll juist
pit doon the lad’s name, Maister Craig; he’s a wee bit fashed wi’ the
discoorse, but he has the root o’ the maitter in him, I doot.’ And so
Billy Breen’s name went down.
When the meeting was over, thirty-eight names stood upon the communion
roll of the Black Rock Presbyterian Church; and it will ever be one of
the regrets of my life that neither Graeme’s name nor my own appeared
on that roll. And two days after, when the cup went round on that first
Communion Sabbath, from Nelson to Sandy, and from Sandy to Baptiste, and
so on down the line to Billy Breen and Mrs. Mavor, and then to Abe, the
driver, whom she had by her own mystic power lifted into hope and faith,
I felt all the shame and pain of a traitor; and I believe, in my heart
that the fire of that pain and shame burned something of the selfish
cowardice out of me, and that it is burning still.
The last words of the minister, in the short address after the table
had been served, were low, and sweet, and tender, but they were words of
high courage; and before he had spoken them all, the men were listening
with shining eyes, and when they rose to sing the closing hymn they
stood straight and stiff like soldiers on parade.
And I wished more than ever I were one of them.
CHAPTER VIII
THE BREAKING OF THE LEAGUE
There is no doubt in my mind that nature designed me for a great
painter. A railway director interfered with that design of nature, as he
has with many another of hers, and by the transmission of an order for
mountain pieces by the dozen, together with a cheque so large that I
feared there was some mistake, he determined me to be an illustrator and
designer for railway and like publications. I do not like these people
ordering ‘by the dozen.’ Why should they not consider an artist’s finer
feelings? Perhaps they cannot understand them; but they understand my
pictures, and I understand their cheques, and there we are quits. But
so it came that I remained in Black Rock long enough to witness the
breaking of the League.
Looking back upon the events of that night from the midst of gentle and
decent surroundings, they now seem strangely unreal, but to me then they
appeared only natural.
It was the Good Friday ball that wrecked the League. For the fact that
the promoters of the ball determined that it should be a ball rather
than a dance was taken by the League men as a concession to the new
public opinion in favour of respectability created by the League. And
when the manager’s patronage had been secured (they failed to get Mrs.
Mavor’s), and it was further announced that, though held in the Black
Rock Hotel ballroom--indeed, there was no other place--refreshments
suited to the peculiar tastes of League men would be provided, it was
felt to be almost a necessity that the League should approve, should
indeed welcome, this concession to the public opinion in favour of
respectability created by the League.
There were extreme men on both sides, of course. ‘Idaho’ Jack,
professional gambler, for instance, frankly considered that the whole
town was going to unmentionable depths of propriety. The organisation of
the League was regarded by him, and by many others, as a sad retrograde
towards the bondage of the ancient and dying East; and that he could not
get drunk when and where he pleased, ‘Idaho,’ as he was called, regarded
as a personal grievance.
But Idaho was never enamoured of the social ways of Black Rock. He was
shocked and disgusted when he discovered that a ‘gun’ was decreed by
British law to be an unnecessary adornment of a card-table. The manner
of his discovery must have been interesting to behold.
It is said that Idaho was industriously pursuing his avocation in
Slavin’s, with his ‘gun’ lying upon the card-table convenient to
his hand, when in walked policeman Jackson, her Majesty’s sole
representative in the Black Rock district. Jackson, ‘Stonewall’ Jackson,
or ‘Stonewall,’ as he was called for obvious reasons, after watching the
game for a few moments, gently tapped the pistol and asked what he used
this for.
‘I’ll show you in two holy minutes if you don’t light out,’ said Idaho,
hardly looking up, but very angrily, for the luck was against him. But
Jackson tapped upon the table and said sweetly--
‘You’re a stranger here. You ought to get a guide-book and post
yourself. Now, the boys know I don’t interfere with an innocent little
game, but there is a regulation against playing it with guns; so,’
he added even more sweetly, but fastening Idaho with a look from
his steel-grey eyes, ‘I’ll just take charge of this,’ picking up the
revolver; ‘it might go off.’
Idaho’s rage, great as it was, was quite swallowed up in his amazed
disgust at the state of society that would permit such an outrage upon
personal liberty. He was quite unable to play any more that evening, and
it took several drinks all round to restore him to articulate speech.
The rest of the night was spent in retailing for his instruction stories
of the ways of Stonewall Jackson.
Idaho bought a new ‘gun,’ but he wore it ‘in his clothes,’ and used it
chiefly in the pastime of shooting out the lights or in picking off
the heels from the boys’ boots while a stag dance was in progress in
Slavin’s. But in Stonewall’s presence Idaho was a most correct citizen.
Stonewall he could understand and appreciate. He was six feet three,
and had an eye of unpleasant penetration. But this new feeling in the
community for respectability he could neither understand nor endure. The
League became the object of his indignant aversion, and the League
men of his contempt. He had many sympathisers, and frequent were the
assaults upon the newly-born sobriety of Billy Breen and others of the
League. But Geordie’s watchful care and Mrs. Mavor’s steady influence,
together with the loyal co-operation of the League men, kept Billy safe
so far. Nixon, too, was a marked man. It may be that he carried himself
with unnecessary jauntiness toward Slavin and Idaho, saluting the former
with, ‘Awful dry weather! eh, Slavin?’ and the latter with, ‘Hello, old
sport! how’s times?’ causing them to swear deeply; and, as it turned
out, to do more than swear.
But on the whole the anti-League men were in favour of a respectable
ball, and most of the League men determined to show their appreciation
of the concession of the committee to the principles of the League in
the important matter of refreshments by attending in force.
Nixon would not go. However jauntily he might talk, he could not trust
himself, as he said, where whisky was flowing, for it got into his nose
‘like a fish-hook into a salmon.’ He was from Nova Scotia. For like
reason, Vernon Winton, the young Oxford fellow, would not go. When they
chaffed, his lips grew a little thinner, and the colour deepened in
his handsome face, but he went on his way. Geordie despised the ‘hale
hypothick’ as a ‘daft ploy,’ and the spending of five dollars upon a
ticket he considered a ‘sinfu’ waste o’ guid siller’; and he warned
Billy against ‘coontenancin’ ony sic redeeklus nonsense.’
But no one expected Billy to go; although the last two months he had
done wonders for his personal appearance, and for his position in the
social scale as well. They all knew what a fight he was making, and
esteemed him accordingly. How well I remember the pleased pride in his
face when he told me in the afternoon of the committee’s urgent request
that he should join the orchestra with his ‘cello! It was not
simply that his ‘cello was his joy and pride, but he felt it to be a
recognition of his return to respectability.
I have often wondered how things combine at times to a man’s
destruction.
Had Mr. Craig not been away at the Landing that week, had Geordie not
been on the night-shift, had Mrs. Mavor not been so occupied with the
care of her sick child, it may be Billy might have been saved his fall.
The anticipation of the ball stirred Black Rock and the camps with a
thrill of expectant delight. Nowadays, when I find myself forced to
leave my quiet smoke in my studio after dinner at the call of some
social engagement which I have failed to elude, I groan at my hard lot,
and I wonder as I look back and remember the pleasurable anticipation
with which I viewed the approaching ball. But I do not wonder now any
more than I did then at the eager delight of the men who for seven days
in the week swung their picks up in the dark breasts of the mines, or
who chopped and sawed among the solitary silences of the great forests.
Any break in the long and weary monotony was welcome; what mattered
the cost or consequence! To the rudest and least cultured of them the
sameness of the life must have been hard to bear; but what it was to men
who had seen life in its most cultured and attractive forms I fail to
imagine. From the mine, black and foul, to the shack, bare, cheerless,
and sometimes hideously repulsive, life swung in heart-grinding monotony
till the longing for a ‘big drink’ or some other ‘big break’ became too
great to bear.
It was well on towards evening when Sandy’s four horse team, with a
load of men from the woods, came swinging round the curves of the
mountain-road and down the street. A gay crowd they were with their
bright, brown faces and hearty voices; and in ten minutes the whole
street seemed alive with lumbermen--they had a faculty of spreading
themselves so. After night fell the miners came down ‘done up slick,’
for this was a great occasion, and they must be up to it. The manager
appeared in evening dress; but this was voted ‘too giddy’ by the
majority.
As Graeme and I passed up to the Black Rock Hotel, in the large
store-room of which the ball was to be held, we met old man Nelson
looking very grave.
‘Going, Nelson, aren’t you?’ I said.
‘Yes,’ he answered slowly; ‘I’ll drop in, though I don’t like the look
of things much.’
‘What’s the matter, Nelson?’ asked Graeme cheerily. ‘There’s no funeral
on.’
‘Perhaps not,’ replied Nelson, ‘but I wish Mr. Craig were home.’ And
then he added, ‘There’s Idaho and Slavin together, and you may bet the
devil isn’t far off.’
But Graeme laughed at his suspicion, and we passed on. The orchestra was
tuning up. There were two violins, a concertina, and the ‘cello. Billy
Breen was lovingly fingering his instrument, now and then indulging
himself in a little snatch of some air that came to him out of his
happier past. He looked perfectly delighted, and as I paused to listen
he gave me a proud glance out of his deep, little, blue eyes, and went
on playing softly to himself. Presently Shaw came along.
‘That’s good, Billy,’ he called out. ‘You’ve got the trick yet, I see.’
But Billy only nodded and went on playing.
‘Where’s Nixon?’ I asked.
‘Gone to bed,’ said Shaw, ‘and I am glad of it. He finds that the safest
place on pay-day afternoon. The boys don’t bother him there.’
The dancing-room was lined on two sides with beer-barrels and
whisky-kegs; at one end the orchestra sat, at the other was a table with
refreshments, where the ‘soft drinks’ might be had. Those who wanted
anything else might pass through a short passage into the bar just
behind.
This was evidently a superior kind of ball, for the men kept on their
coats, and went through the various figures with faces of unnatural
solemnity. But the strain upon their feelings was quite apparent, and it
became a question how long it could be maintained. As the trips through
the passage-way became more frequent the dancing grew in vigour and
hilarity, until by the time supper was announced the stiffness had
sufficiently vanished to give no further anxiety to the committee.
But the committee had other cause for concern, inasmuch as after supper
certain of the miners appeared with their coats off, and proceeded to
‘knock the knots out of the floor’ in break-down dances of extraordinary
energy. These, however, were beguiled into the bar-room and ‘filled up’
for safety, for the committee were determined that the respectability of
the ball should be preserved to the end. Their reputation was at stake,
not in Black Rock only, but at the Landing as well, from which most of
the ladies had come; and to be shamed in the presence of the Landing
people could not be borne. Their difficulties seemed to be increasing,
for at this point something seemed to go wrong with the orchestra.
The ‘cello appeared to be wandering aimlessly up and down the scale,
occasionally picking up the tune with animation, and then dropping it.
As Billy saw me approaching, he drew himself up with great solemnity,
gravely winked at me, and said--
‘Shlipped a cog, Mishter Connor! Mosh hunfortunate! Beauchiful
hinstrument, but shlips a cog. Mosh hunfortunate!’
And he wagged his little head sagely, playing all the while for dear
life, now second and now lead.
Poor Billy! I pitied him, but I thought chiefly of the beautiful, eager
face that leaned towards him the night the League was made, and of the
bright voice that said, ‘You’ll sign with me, Billy?’ and it seemed to
me a cruel deed to make him lose his grip of life and hope; for this is
what the pledge meant to him.
While I was trying to get Billy away to some safe place, I heard a
great shouting in the direction of the bar, followed by trampling and
scuffling of feet in the passage-way. Suddenly a man burst through,
crying--
‘Let me go! Stand back! I know what I’m about!’
It was Nixon, dressed in his best; black clothes, blue shirt, red tie,
looking handsome enough, but half-drunk and wildly excited. The highland
Fling competition was on at the moment, and Angus Campbell, Lachlan’s
brother, was representing the lumber camps in the contest. Nixon looked
on approvingly for a few moments, then with a quick movement he seized
the little Highlander, swung him in his powerful arms clean off the
floor, and deposited him gently upon a beer-barrel. Then he stepped
into the centre of the room, bowed to the judges, and began a sailor’s
hornpipe.
The committee were perplexed, but after deliberation they decided to
humour the new competitor, especially as they knew that Nixon with
whisky in him was unpleasant to cross.
Lightly and gracefully he went through his steps, the men crowding in
from the bar to admire, for Nixon was famed for his hornpipe. But when,
after the hornpipe, he proceeded to execute a clog-dance, garnished with
acrobatic feats, the committee interfered. There were cries of ‘Put him
out!’ and ‘Let him alone! Go on, Nixon!’ And Nixon hurled back into the
crowd two of the committee who had laid remonstrating hands upon him,
and, standing in the open centre, cried out scornfully--
‘Put me out! Put me out! Certainly! Help yourselves! Don’t mind me!’
Then grinding his teeth, so that I heard them across the room, he added
with savage deliberation, ‘If any man lays a finger on me, I’ll--I’ll
eat his liver cold.’
He stood for a few moments glaring round upon the company, and then
strode toward the bar, followed by the crowd wildly yelling. The ball
was forthwith broken up. I looked around for Billy, but he was nowhere
to be seen. Graeme touched my arm--
‘There’s going to be something of a time, so just keep your eyes
skinned.’
‘What are you going to do?’ I asked.
‘Do? Keep myself beautifully out of trouble,’ he replied.
In a few moments the crowd came surging back headed by Nixon, who was
waving a whisky-bottle over his head and yelling as one possessed.
‘Hello!’ exclaimed Graeme softly, ‘I begin to see. Look there!’
‘What’s up?’ I asked.
‘You see Idaho and Slavin and their pets,’ he replied.
‘They’ve got poor Nixon in tow. Idaho is rather nasty,’ he added, ‘but
I think I’ll take a hand in this game; I’ve seen some of Idaho’s work
before.’
The scene was one quite strange to me, and was wild beyond description.
A hundred men filled the room. Bottles were passed from hand to hand,
and men drank their fill. Behind the refreshment-tables stood the
hotelman and his barkeeper with their coats off and sleeves rolled up to
the shoulder, passing out bottles, and drawing beer and whisky from two
kegs hoisted up for that purpose. Nixon was in his glory. It was
his night. Every man was to get drunk at his expense, he proclaimed,
flinging down bills upon the table. Near him were some League men he
was treating liberally, and never far away were Idaho and Slavin passing
bottles, but evidently drinking little.
I followed Graeme, not feeling too comfortable, for this sort of thing
was new to me, but admiring the cool assurance with which he made his
way through the crowd that swayed and yelled and swore and laughed in a
most disconcerting manner.
‘Hello!’ shouted Nixon as he caught sight of Graeme. ‘Here you are!’
passing him a bottle. ‘You’re a knocker, a double-handed front door
knocker. You polished off old whisky-soak here, old demijohn,’ pointing
to Slavin, ‘and I’ll lay five to one we can lick any blankety blank
thieves in the crowd,’ and he held up a roll of bills.
But Graeme proposed that he should give the hornpipe again, and the
floor was cleared at once, for Nixon’s hornpipe was very popular, and
tonight, of course, was in high favour. In the midst of his dance Nixon
stopped short, his arms dropped to his side, his face had a look of
fear, of horror.
There, before him, in his riding-cloak and boots, with his whip in his
hand as he had come from his ride, stood Mr. Craig. His face was pallid,
and his dark eyes were blazing with fierce light. As Nixon stopped,
Craig stepped forward to him, and sweeping his eyes round upon the
circle he said in tones intense with scorn--
‘You cowards! You get a man where he’s weak! Cowards! you’d damn his
soul for his money!’
There was dead silence, and Craig, lifting his hat, said solemnly--
‘May God forgive you this night’s work!’
Then, turning to Nixon, and throwing his arm over his shoulder, he said
in a voice broken and husky--
‘Come on, Nixon! we’ll go!’
Idaho made a motion as if to stop him, but Graeme stepped quickly
foreword and said sharply, ‘Make way there, can’t you?’ and the crowd
fell back and we four passed through, Nixon walking as in a dream, with
Craig’s arm about him. Down the street we went in silence, and on to
Craig’s shack, where we found old man Nelson, with the fire blazing, and
strong coffee steaming on the stove. It was he that had told Craig, on
his arrival from the Landing, of Nixon’s fall.
There was nothing of reproach, but only gentlest pity, in tone and touch
as Craig placed the half-drunk, dazed man in his easy-chair, took off
his boots, brought him his own slippers, and gave him coffee. Then, as
his stupor began to overcome him, Craig put him in his own bed, and came
forth with a face written over with grief.
‘Don’t mind, old chap,’ said Graeme kindly.
But Craig looked at him without a word, and, throwing himself into a
chair, put his face in his hands. As we sat there in silence the door
was suddenly pushed open and in walked Abe Baker with the words, ‘Where
is Nixon?’ and we told him where he was. We were still talking when
again a tap came to the door, and Shaw came in looking much disturbed.
‘Did you hear about Nixon?’ he asked. We told him what we knew.
‘But did you hear how they got him?’ he asked, excitedly.
As he told us the tale, the men stood listening, with faces growing
hard.
It appeared that after the making of the League the Black Rock Hotel man
had bet Idaho one hundred to fifty that Nixon could not be got to drink
before Easter. All Idaho’s schemes had failed, and now he had only three
days in which to win his money, and the ball was his last chance. Here
again he was balked, for Nixon, resisting all entreaties, barred his
shack door and went to bed before nightfall, according to his invariable
custom on pay-days. At midnight some of Idaho’s men came battering at
the door for admission, which Nixon reluctantly granted. For half an
hour they used every art of persuasion to induce him to go down to the
ball, the glorious success of which was glowingly depicted; but Nixon
remained immovable, and they took their departure, baffled and cursing.
In two hours they returned drunk enough to be dangerous, kicked at the
door in vain, finally gained entrance through the window, hauled Nixon
out of bed, and, holding a glass of whisky to his lips, bade him drink.
But he knocked the glass sway, spilling the liquor over himself and the
bed.
It was drink or fight, and Nixon was ready to fight; but after parley
they had a drink all round, and fell to persuasion again. The night was
cold, and poor Nixon sat shivering on the edge of his bed. If he would
take one drink they would leave him alone. He need not show himself so
stiff. The whisky fumes filled his nostrils. If one drink would get
them off, surely that was better than fighting and killing some one or
getting killed. He hesitated, yielded, drank his glass. They sat about
him amiably drinking, and lauding him as a fine fellow after all. One
more glass before they left. Then Nixon rose, dressed himself, drank all
that was left of the bottle, put his money in his pocket, and came down
to the dance, wild with his old-time madness, reckless of faith and
pledge, forgetful of home, wife, babies, his whole being absorbed in one
great passion--to drink and drink and drink till he could drink no more.
Before Shaw had finished his tale, Craig’s eyes were streaming with
tears, and groans of rage and pity broke alternately from him. Abe
remained speechless for a time, not trusting himself; but as he heard
Craig groan, ‘Oh, the beasts! the fiends!’ he seemed encouraged to
let himself loose, and he began swearing with the coolest and most
blood-curdling deliberation. Craig listened with evident approval,
apparently finding complete satisfaction in Abe’s performance, when
suddenly he seemed to waken up, caught Abe by the arm, and said in a
horror-stricken voice--
‘Stop! stop! God forgive us! we must not swear like this.’
Abe stopped at once, and in a surprised and slightly grieved voice
said--
‘Why! what’s the matter with that? Ain’t that what you wanted?’
‘Yes! yes! God forgive me! I am afraid it was,’ he answered hurriedly;
‘but I must not.’
‘Oh, don’t you worry,’ went on Abe cheerfully; ‘I’ll look after that
part; and anyway, ain’t they the blankest blankety blank’--going off
again into a roll of curses, till Craig, in an agony of entreaty,
succeeded in arresting the flow of profanity possible to no one but a
mountain stage-driver. Abe paused looking hurt, and asked if they did
not deserve everything he was calling down upon them.
‘Yes, yes,’ urged Craig; ‘but that is not our business.’
‘Well! so I reckoned,’ replied Abe, recognising the limitations of the
cloth; ‘you ain’t used to it, and you can’t be expected to do it; but it
just makes me feel good--let out o’ school like--to properly do ‘em up,
the blank, blank,’ and off he went again. It was only under the pressure
of Mr. Craig’s prayers and commands that he finally agreed ‘to hold in,
though it was tough.’
‘What’s to be done?’ asked Shaw.
‘Nothing,’ answered Craig bitterly. He was exhausted with his long ride
from the Landing, and broken with bitter disappointment over the ruin of
all that he had laboured so long to accomplish.
‘Nonsense,’ said Graeme; ‘there’s a good deal to do.’
It was agreed that Craig should remain with Nixon while the others of us
should gather up what fragments we could find of the broken League. We
had just opened the door, when we met a man striding up at a great pace.
It was Geordie Crawford.
‘Hae ye seen the lad?’ was his salutation. No one replied. So I told
Geordie of my last sight of Billy in the orchestra.
‘An’ did ye no’ gang aifter him?’ he asked in indignant surprise, adding
with some contempt, ‘Man! but ye’re a feckless buddie.’
‘Billy gone too!’ said Shaw. ‘They might have let Billy alone.’
Poor Craig stood in a dumb agony. Billy’s fall seemed more than he
could bear. We went out, leaving him heart-broken amid the ruins of his
League.
CHAPTER IX
THE LEAGUE’S REVENGE
As we stood outside of Craig’s shack in the dim starlight, we could not
hide from ourselves that we were beaten. It was not so much grief as
a blind fury that filled my heart, and looking at the faces of the men
about me I read the same feeling there. But what could we do? The yells
of carousing miners down at Slavin’s told us that nothing could be done
with them that night. To be so utterly beaten, and unfairly, and with no
chance of revenge, was maddening.
‘I’d like to get back at ‘em,’ said Abe, carefully repressing himself.
‘I’ve got it, men,’ said Graeme suddenly. ‘This town does not require
all the whisky there is in it’; and he unfolded his plan. It was to gain
possession of Slavin’s saloon and the bar of the Black Rock Hotel, and
clear out all the liquor to be found in both these places. I did not
much like the idea; and Geordie said, ‘I’m ga’en aifter the lad; I’ll
hae naethin’ tae dae wi’ yon. It’s’ no’ that easy, an’ it’s a sinfu’
waste.’
But Abe was wild to try it, and Shaw was quite willing, while old Nelson
sternly approved.
‘Nelson, you and Shaw get a couple of our men and attend to the saloon.
Slavin and the whole gang are up at the Black Rock, so you won’t have
much trouble; but come to us as soon as you can.’
And so we went our ways.
Then followed a scene the like of which I can never hope to see again,
and it was worth a man’s seeing. But there were times that night when I
wished I had not agreed to follow Graeme in his plot. As we went up to
the hotel, I asked Graeme, ‘What about the law of this?’
‘Law!’ he replied indignantly. ‘They haven’t troubled much about law in
the whisky business here. They get a keg of high wines and some drugs
and begin operations. No!’ he went on; ‘if we can get the crowd out, and
ourselves in, we’ll make them break the law in getting us out. The law
won’t trouble us over smuggled whisky. It will be a great lark, and they
won’t crow too loud over the League.’
I did not like the undertaking at first; but as I thought of the whole
wretched illegal business flourishing upon the weakness of the men
in the mines and camps, whom I had learned to regard as brothers, and
especially as I thought of the cowards that did for Nixon, I let my
scruples go, and determined, with Abe, ‘to get back at ‘em.’
We had no difficulty getting them out. Abe began to yell. Some men
rushed out to learn the cause. He seized the foremost man, making a
hideous uproar all the while, and in three minutes had every man out of
the hotel and a lively row going on.
In two minutes more Graeme and I had the door to the ball-room locked
and barricaded with empty casks. We then closed the door of the bar-room
leading to the outside. The bar-room was a strongly built log-shack,
with a heavy door secured, after the manner of the early cabins, with
two strong oak bars, so that we felt safe from attack from that quarter.
The ball-room we could not hold long, for the door was slight and
entrance was possible through the windows. But as only a few casks of
liquor were left there, our main work would be in the bar, so that the
fight would be to hold the passage-way. This we barricaded with casks
and tables. But by this time the crowd had begun to realise what had
happened, and were wildly yelling at door and windows. With an axe which
Graeme had brought with him the casks were soon stove in, and left to
empty themselves.
As I was about to empty the last cask, Graeme stopped me, saying, ‘Let
that stand here. It will help us.’ And so it did. ‘Now skip for the
barricade,’ yelled Graeme, as a man came crashing through the window.
Before he could regain his feet, however, Graeme had seized him and
flung him out upon the heads of the crowd outside. But through the
other windows men were coming in, and Graeme rushed for the barricade,
followed by two of the enemy, the foremost of whom I received at the top
and hurled back upon the others.
‘Now, be quick!’ said Graeme; ‘I’ll hold this. Don’t break any bottles
on the floor--throw them out there,’ pointing to a little window high up
in the wall.
I made all haste. The casks did not take much time, and soon the whisky
and beer were flowing over the floor. It made me think of Geordie’s
regret over the ‘sinfu’ waste.’ The bottles took longer, and glancing up
now and then I saw that Graeme was being hard pressed. Men would leap,
two and three at a time, upon the barricade, and Graeme’s arms would
shoot out, and over they would topple upon the heads of those nearest.
It was a great sight to see him standing alone with a smile on his face
and the light of battle in his eye, coolly meeting his assailants with
those terrific, lightning-like blows. In fifteen minutes my work was
done.
‘What next?’ I asked. ‘How do we get out?’
‘How is the door?’ he replied.
I looked through the port-hole and said, ‘A crowd of men waiting.’
‘We’ll have to make a dash for it, I fancy,’ he replied cheerfully,
though his face was covered with blood and his breath was coming in
short gasps.
‘Get down the bars and be ready.’ But even as he spoke a chair hurled
from below caught him on the arm, and before he could recover, a man had
cleared the barricade and was upon him like a tiger. It was Idaho Jack.
‘Hold the barricade,’ Graeme called out, as they both went down.
I sprang to his place, but I had not much hope of holding it long. I had
the heavy oak bar of the door in my hands, and swinging it round my head
I made the crowd give back for a few moments.
Meantime Graeme had shaken off his enemy, who was circling about him
upon his tip-toes, with a long knife in his hand, waiting for a chance
to spring.
‘I have been waiting for this for some time, Mr. Graeme,’ he said
smiling.
‘Yes,’ replied Graeme, ‘ever since I spoiled your cut-throat game in
‘Frisco. How is the little one?’ he added sarcastically.
Idaho’s face lost its smile and became distorted with fury as he
replied, spitting out his words, ‘She--is--where you will be before I am
done with you.’
‘Ah! you murdered her too! You’ll hang some beautiful day, Idaho,’ said
Graeme, as Idaho sprang upon him.
Graeme dodged his blow and caught his forearm with his left hand and
held up high the murderous knife. Back and forward they swayed over the
floor, slippery with whisky, the knife held high in the air. I wondered
why Graeme did not strike, and then I saw his right hand hung limp from
the wrist. The men were crowding upon the barricade. I was in despair.
Graeme’s strength was going fast. With a yell of exultant fury Idaho
threw himself with all his weight upon Graeme, who could only cling to
him. They swayed together towards me, but as they fell I brought down
my bar upon the upraised hand and sent the knife flying across the room.
Idaho’s howl of rage and pain was mingled with a shout from below, and
there, dashing the crowd right and left, came old Nelson, followed by
Abe, Sandy, Baptiste, Shaw, and others. As they reached the barricade it
crashed down and, carrying me with it, pinned me fast.
Looking out between the barrels, I saw what froze my heart with horror.
In the fall Graeme had wound his arms about his enemy and held him in
a grip so deadly that he could not strike; but Graeme’s strength was
failing, and when I looked I saw that Idaho was slowly dragging both
across the slippery floor to where the knife lay. Nearer and nearer his
outstretched fingers came to the knife. In vain I yelled and struggled.
My voice was lost in the awful din, and the barricade held me fast.
Above me, standing on a barrel-head, was Baptiste, yelling like a demon.
In vain I called to him. My fingers could just reach his foot, and
he heeded not at all my touch. Slowly Idaho was dragging his almost
unconscious victim toward the knife. His fingers were touching the
blade point, when, under a sudden inspiration, I pulled out my penknife,
opened it with my teeth, and drove the blade into Baptiste’s foot. With
a blood-curdling yell he sprang down and began dancing round in his
rage, peering among the barrels.
‘Look! look!’ I was calling in agony, and pointing; ‘for heaven’s sake,
look! Baptiste!’
The fingers had closed upon the knife, the knife was already high in
the air, when, with a shriek, Baptiste cleared the room at a bound, and,
before the knife could fall, the little Frenchman’s boot had caught the
uplifted wrist, and sent the knife flying to the wall.
Then there was a great rushing sound as of wind through the forest, and
the lights went out. When I awoke, I found myself lying with my head on
Graeme’s knees, and Baptiste sprinkling snow on my face. As I looked up
Graeme leaned over me, and, smiling down into my eyes, he said--
‘Good boy! It was a great fight, and we put it up well’; and then he
whispered, ‘I owe you my life, my boy.’
His words thrilled my heart through and through, for I loved him as only
men can love men; but I only answered--
‘I could not keep them back.’
‘It was well done,’ he said; and I felt proud. I confess I was thankful
to be so well out of it, for Graeme got off with a bone in his wrist
broken, and I with a couple of ribs cracked; but had it not been for the
open barrel of whisky which kept them occupied for a time, offering too
good a chance to be lost, and for the timely arrival of Nelson, neither
of us had ever seen the light again.
We found Craig sound asleep upon his couch. His consternation on waking
to see us torn, bruised, and bloody was laughable; but he hastened to
find us warm water and bandages, and we soon felt comfortable.
Baptiste was radiant with pride and light over the fight, and hovered
about Graeme and me giving vent to his feelings in admiring French and
English expletives. But Abe was disgusted because of the failure at
Slavin’s; for when Nelson looked in, he saw Slavin’s French-Canadian
wife in charge, with her baby on her lap, and he came back to Shaw and
said, ‘Come away, we can’t touch this’; and Shaw, after looking in,
agreed that nothing could be done. A baby held the fort.
As Craig listened to the account of the fight, he tried hard not to
approve, but he could not keep the gleam out of his eyes; and as I
pictured Graeme dashing back the crowd thronging the barricade till he
was brought down by the chair, Craig laughed gently, and put his hand
on Graeme’s knee. And as I went on to describe my agony while Idaho’s
fingers were gradually nearing the knife, his face grew pale and his
eyes grew wide with horror.
‘Baptiste here did the business,’ I said, and the little Frenchman
nodded complacently and said--
‘Dat’s me for sure.’
‘By the way, how is your foot?’ asked Graeme.
‘He’s fuss-rate. Dat’s what you call--one bite of--of--dat leel bees,
he’s dere, you put your finger dere, he’s not dere!--what you call him?’
‘Flea!’ I suggested.
‘Oui!’ cried Baptiste. ‘Dat’s one bite of flea.’
‘I was thankful I was under the barrels,’ I replied, smiling.
‘Oui! Dat’s mak’ me ver mad. I jump an’ swear mos’ awful bad. Dat’s
pardon me, M’sieu Craig, heh?’
But Craig only smiled at him rather sadly. ‘It was awfully risky,’ he
said to Graeme, ‘and it was hardly worth it. They’ll get more whisky,
and anyway the League is gone.’
‘Well,’ said Graeme with a sigh of satisfaction, ‘it is not quite such a
one-sided affair as it was.’
And we could say nothing in reply, for we could hear Nixon snoring in
the next room, and no one had heard of Billy, and there were others of
the League that we knew were even now down at Slavin’s. It was thought
best that all should remain in Mr. Craig’s shack, not knowing what might
happen; and so we lay where we could and we needed none to sing us to
sleep.
When I awoke, stiff and sore, it was to find breakfast ready and old man
Nelson in charge. As we were seated, Craig came in, and I saw that he
was not the man of the night before. His courage had come back, his face
was quiet and his eye clear; he was his own man again.
‘Geordie has been out all night, but has failed to find Billy,’ he
announced quietly.
We did not talk much; Graeme and I worried with our broken bones,
and the others suffered from a general morning depression. But, after
breakfast, as the men were beginning to move, Craig took down his Bible,
and saying--
‘Wait a few minutes, men!’ he read slowly, in his beautiful clear voice,
that psalm for all fighters--
‘God is our refuge and strength,’
and soon to the noble words--
‘The Lord of Hosts is with us;
The God of Jacob is our refuge.’
How the mighty words pulled us together, lifted us till we grew ashamed
of our ignoble rage and of our ignoble depression!
And then Craig prayed in simple, straight-going words. There was
acknowledgement of failure, but I knew he was thinking chiefly of
himself; and there was gratitude, and that was for the men about him,
and I felt my face burn with shame; and there was petition for help,
and we all thought of Nixon, and Billy, and the men wakening from their
debauch at Slavin’s this pure, bright morning. And then he asked that we
might be made faithful and worthy of God, whose battle it was. Then we
all stood up and shook hands with him in silence, and every man knew a
covenant was being made. But none saw his meeting with Nixon. He sent us
all away before that.
Nothing was heard of the destruction of the hotel stock-in-trade.
Unpleasant questions would certainly be asked, and the proprietor
decided to let bad alone. On the point of respectability the success of
the ball was not conspicuous, but the anti-League men were content, if
not jubilant.
Billy Breen was found by Geordie late in the afternoon in his own
old and deserted shack, breathing heavily, covered up in his filthy,
mouldering bed-clothes, with a half-empty bottle of whisky at his side.
Geordie’s grief and rage were beyond even his Scotch control. He spoke
few words, but these were of such concentrated vehemence that no one
felt the need of Abe’s assistance in vocabulary.
Poor Billy! We carried him to Mrs. Mavor’s home; put him in a warm bath,
rolled him in blankets, and gave him little sips of hot water, then of
hot milk and coffee; as I had seen a clever doctor in the hospital treat
a similar case of nerve and heart depression. But the already weakened
system could not recover from the awful shock of the exposure following
the debauch; and on Sunday afternoon we saw that his heart was failing
fast. All day the miners had been dropping in to inquire after him, for
Billy had been a great favourite in other days, and the attention of the
town had been admiringly centred upon his fight of these last weeks. It
was with no ordinary sorrow that the news of his condition was received.
As Mrs. Mavor sang to him, his large coarse hands moved in time to the
music, but he did not open his eyes till he heard Mr. Craig’s voice in
the next room; then he spoke his name, and Mr. Craig was kneeling beside
him in a moment. The words came slowly--
‘Oi tried--to fight it hout--but---oi got beaten. Hit ‘urts to think
‘E’s hashamed o’ me. Oi’d like t’a done better--oi would.’
‘Ashamed of you, Billy!’ said Craig, in a voice that broke. ‘Not He.’
‘An’--ye hall--‘elped me so!’ he went on. ‘Oi wish oi’d ‘a done
better--oi do,’ and his eyes sought Geordie, and then rested on Mrs.
Mavor, who smiled back at him with a world of love in her eyes.
‘You hain’t hashamed o’ me--yore heyes saigh so,’ he said looking at
her.
‘No, Billy,’ she said, and I wondered at her steady voice, ‘not a bit.
Why, Billy, I am proud of you.’
He gazed up at her with wonder and ineffable love in his little eyes,
then lifted his hand slightly toward her. She knelt quickly and took it
in both of hers, stroking it and kissing it.
‘Oi haught t’a done better. Oi’m hawful sorry oi went back on ‘Im. Hit
was the lemonaide. The boys didn’t mean no ‘arm--but hit started the
‘ell hinside.’
Geordie hurled out some bitter words.
‘Don’t be ‘ard on ‘em, Geordie; they didn’t mean no ‘arm,’ he said, and
his eyes kept waiting till Geordie said hurriedly--
‘Na! na! lad--a’ll juist leave them till the Almichty.’
Then Mrs. Mavor sang softly, smoothing his hand, ‘Just as I am,’ and
Billy dozed quietly for half an hour.
When he awoke again his eyes turned to Mr. Craig, and they were troubled
and anxious.
‘Oi tried ‘ard. Oi wanted to win,’ he struggled to say. By this time
Craig was master of himself, and he answered in a clear, distinct
voice--
‘Listen, Billy! You made a great fight, and you are going to win
yet. And besides, do you remember the sheep that got lost over the
mountains?’--this parable was Billy’s special delight--‘He didn’t beat
it when He got it, did he? He took it in His arms and carried it home.
And so He will you.’
And Billy, keeping his eyes fastened on Mr. Craig, simply said--
‘Will ‘E?’
‘Sure!’ said Craig.
‘Will ‘E?’ he repeated, turning his eyes upon Mrs. Mavor.
‘Why, yes, Billy,’ she answered cheerily, though the tears were
streaming from her eyes. ‘I would, and He loves you far more.’
He looked at her, smiled, and closed his eyes. I put my hand on his
heart; it was fluttering feebly. Again a troubled look passed over his
face.
‘My--poor--hold--mother,’ he whispered, ‘she’s--hin--the--wukus.’
‘I shall take care of her, Billy,’ said Mrs. Mavor, in a clear voice,
and again Billy smiled. Then he turned his eyes to Mr. Craig, and from
him to Geordie, and at last to Mrs. Mavor, where they rested. She bent
over and kissed him twice on the forehead.
‘Tell ‘er,’ he said, with difficulty, ‘’E’s took me ‘ome.’
‘Yes, Billy!’ she cried, gazing into his glazing eyes. He tried to lift
her hand. She kissed him again. He drew one deep breath and lay quite
still.
‘Thank the blessed Saviour!’ said Mr. Craig, reverently. ‘He has taken
him home.’
But Mrs. Mavor held the dead hand tight and sobbed out passionately,
‘Oh, Billy, Billy! you helped me once when I needed help! I cannot
forget!’
And Geordie, groaning, ‘Ay, laddie, laddie,’ passed out into the fading
light of the early evening.
Next day no one went to work, for to all it seemed a sacred day. They
carried him into the little church, and there Mr. Craig spoke of his
long, hard fight, and of his final victory; for he died without a fear,
and with love to the men who, not knowing, had been his death. And there
was no bitterness in any heart, for Mr. Craig read the story of the
sheep, and told how gently He had taken Billy home; but, though no word
was spoken, it was there the League was made again.
They laid him under the pines, beside Lewis Mavor; and the miners threw
sprigs of evergreen into the open grave. When Slavin, sobbing bitterly,
brought his sprig, no one stopped him, though all thought it strange.
As we turned to leave the grave, the light from the evening sun came
softly through the gap in the mountains, and, filling the valley,
touched the trees and the little mound beneath with glory. And I thought
of that other glory, which is brighter than the sun, and was not sorry
that poor Billy’s weary fight was over; and I could not help agreeing
with Craig that it was there the League had its revenge.
CHAPTER X
WHAT CAME TO SLAVIN
Billy Breen’s legacy to the Black Rock mining camp was a new League,
which was more than the old League re-made. The League was new in its
spirit and in its methods. The impression made upon the camp by Billy
Breen’s death was very remarkable, and I have never been quite able to
account for it. The mood of the community at the time was peculiarly
susceptible. Billy was one of the oldest of the old-timers. His decline
and fall had been a long process, and his struggle for life and manhood
was striking enough to arrest the attention and awaken the sympathy of
the whole camp. We instinctively side with a man in his struggle for
freedom; for we feel that freedom is native to him and to us. The sudden
collapse of the struggle stirred the men with a deep pity for the beaten
man, and a deep contempt for those who had tricked him to his doom. But
though the pity and the contempt remained, the gloom was relieved and
the sense of defeat removed from the men’s minds by the transforming
glory of Billy’s last hour. Mr. Craig, reading of the tragedy of Billy’s
death, transfigured defeat into victory, and this was generally accepted
by the men as the true reading, though to them it was full of mystery.
But they could all understand and appreciate at full value the spirit
that breathed through the words of the dying man: ‘Don’t be ‘ard on ‘em,
they didn’t mean no ‘arm.’ And this was the new spirit of the League.
It was this spirit that surprised Slavin into sudden tears at the
grave’s side. He had come braced for curses and vengeance, for all knew
it was he who had doctored Billy’s lemonade, and instead of vengeance
the message from the dead that echoed through the voice of the living
was one of pity and forgiveness.
But the days of the League’s negative, defensive warfare were over.
The fight was to the death, and now the war was to be carried into
the enemy’s country. The League men proposed a thoroughly equipped and
well-conducted coffee-room, reading-room, and hall, to parallel the
enemy’s lines of operation, and defeat them with their own weapons upon
their own ground. The main outlines of the scheme were clearly defined
and were easily seen, but the perfecting of the details called for all
Craig’s tact and good sense. When, for instance, Vernon Winton, who had
charge of the entertainment department, came for Craig’s opinion as to
a minstrel troupe and private theatricals, Craig was prompt with his
answer--
‘Anything clean goes.’
‘A nigger show?’ asked Winton.
‘Depends upon the niggers,’ replied Craig with a gravely comic look,
shrewdly adding, ‘ask Mrs. Mavor’; and so the League Minstrel and
Dramatic Company became an established fact, and proved, as Craig
afterwards told me, ‘a great means of grace to the camp.’
Shaw had charge of the social department, whose special care it was to
see that the men were made welcome to the cosy, cheerful reading room,
where they might chat, smoke, read, write, or play games, according to
fancy.
But Craig felt that the success or failure of the scheme would largely
depend upon the character of the Resident Manager, who, while caring
for reading-room and hall, would control and operate the important
department represented by the coffee-room.
‘At this point the whole business may come to grief,’ he said to Mrs.
Mavor, without whose counsel nothing was done.
‘Why come to grief?’ she asked brightly.
‘Because if we don’t get the right man, that’s what will happen,’ he
replied in a tone that spoke of anxious worry.
‘But we shall get the right man, never fear.’ Her serene courage never
faltered. ‘He will come to us.’
Craig turned and gazed at her in frank admiration and said--
‘If I only had your courage!’
‘Courage!’ she answered quickly. ‘It is not for you to say that’; and
at his answering look the red came into her cheek and the depths in her
eyes glowed, and I marvelled and wondered, looking at Craig’s cool face,
whether his blood were running evenly through his veins. But his voice
was quiet, a shade too quiet I thought, as he gravely replied--
‘I would often be a coward but for the shame of it.’
And so the League waited for the man to come, who was to be Resident
Manager and make the new enterprise a success. And come he did; but the
manner of his coming was so extraordinary, that I have believed in the
doctrine of a special providence ever since; for as Craig said, ‘If he
had come straight from Heaven I could not have been more surprised.’
While the League was thus waiting, its interest centred upon Slavin,
chiefly because he represented more than any other the forces of the
enemy; and though Billy Breen stood between him and the vengeance of the
angry men who would have made short work of him and his saloon, nothing
could save him from himself, and after the funeral Slavin went to his
bar and drank whisky as he had never drunk before. But the more he drank
the fiercer and gloomier he became, and when the men drinking with him
chaffed him, he swore deeply and with such threats that they left him
alone.
It did not help Slavin either to have Nixon stride in through the crowd
drinking at his bar and give him words of warning.
‘It is not your fault, Slavin,’ he said in slow, cool voice, ‘that you
and your precious crew didn’t sent me to my death, too. You’ve won your
bet, but I want to say, that next time, though you are seven to one, or
ten times that, when any of you boys offer me a drink I’ll take you to
mean fight, and I’ll not disappoint you, and some one will be killed,’
and so saying he strode out again, leaving a mean-looking crowd of men
behind him. All who had not been concerned in the business at Nixon’s
shack expressed approval of his position, and hoped he would ‘see it
through.’
But the impression of Nixon’s words upon Slavin was as nothing compared
with that made by Geordie Crawford. It was not what he said so much
as the manner of awful solemnity he carried. Geordie was struggling
conscientiously to keep his promise to ‘not be ‘ard on the boys,’ and
found considerable relief in remembering that he had agreed ‘to leave
them tae the Almichty.’ But the manner of leaving them was so solemnly
awful, that I could not wonder that Slavin’s superstitious Irish nature
supplied him with supernatural terrors. It was the second day after the
funeral that Geordie and I were walking towards Slavin’s. There was a
great shout of laughter as we drew near.
Geordie stopped short, and saying, ‘We’ll juist gang in a meenute,’
passed through the crowd and up to the bar.
‘Michael Slavin,’ began Geordie, and the men stared in dead, silence,
with their glasses in their hands. ‘Michael Slavin, a’ promised the lad
a’d bear ye nae ill wull, but juist leave ye tae the Almichty; an’ I
want tae tell ye that a’m keepin’ ma wur-r-d. But’--and here he raised
his hand, and his voice became preternaturally solemn--‘his bluid is
upon yer han’s. Do ye no’ see it?’
His voice rose sharply, and as he pointed, Slavin instinctively glanced
at his hands, and Geordie added--
‘Ay, and the Lord will require it o’ you and yer hoose.’
They told me that Slavin shivered as if taken with ague after Geordie
went out, and though he laughed and swore, he did not stop drinking till
he sank into a drunken stupor and had to be carried to bed. His little
French-Canadian wife could not understand the change that had come over
her husband.
‘He’s like one bear,’ she confided to Mrs. Mavor, to whom she was
showing her baby of a year old. ‘He’s not kees me one tam dis day.
He’s mos hawful bad, he’s not even look at de baby.’ And this seemed
sufficient proof that something was seriously wrong; for she went on to
say--
‘He’s tink more for dat leel baby dan for de whole worl’; he’s tink more
for dat baby dan for me,’ but she shrugged her pretty little shoulders
in deprecation of her speech.
‘You must pray for him,’ said Mrs. Mavor, ‘and all will come right.’
‘Ah! madame!’ she replied earnestly, ‘every day, every day, I pray la
sainte Vierge et tous les saints for him.’
‘You must pray to your Father in heaven for him.’
‘Ah! oui! I weel pray,’ and Mrs. Mavor sent her away bright with smiles,
and with new hope and courage in her heart.
She had very soon need of all her courage, for at the week’s end her
baby fell dangerously ill. Slavin’s anxiety and fear were not relieved
much by the reports the men brought him from time to time of Geordie’s
ominous forebodings; for Geordie had no doubt but that the Avenger of
Blood was hot upon Slavin’s trail; and as the sickness grew, he became
confirmed in this conviction. While he could not be said to find
satisfaction in Slavin’s impending affliction, he could hardly hide his
complacency in the promptness of Providence in vindicating his theory of
retribution.
But Geordie’s complacency was somewhat rudely shocked by Mr. Craig’s
answer to his theory one day.
‘You read your Bible to little profit, it seems to me, Geordie: or,
perhaps, you have never read the Master’s teaching about the Tower of
Siloam. Better read that and take that warning to yourself.’
Geordie gazed after Mr. Craig as he turned away, and muttered--
‘The toor o’ Siloam, is it? Ay, a’ ken fine aboot the toor o’ Siloam,
and aboot the toor o’ Babel as weel; an’ a’ve read, too, about the
blaspheemious Herod, an’ sic like. Man, but he’s a hot-heided laddie,
and lacks discreemeenation.’
‘What about Herod, Geordie?’ I asked.
‘Aboot Herod?’--with a strong tinge of contempt in his tone. ‘Aboot
Herod? Man, hae ye no’ read in the Screepturs aboot Herod an’ the
wur-r-ms in the wame o’ him?’
‘Oh yes, I see,’ I hastened to answer.
‘Ay, a fule can see what’s flapped in his face,’ with which bit of
proverbial philosophy he suddenly left me. But Geordie thenceforth
contented himself, in Mr. Craig’s presence at least, with ominous
head-shakings, equally aggravating, and impossible to answer.
That same night, however, Geordie showed that with all his theories he
had a man’s true heart, for he came in haste to Mrs. Mavor to say:
‘Ye’ll be needed ower yonder, a’m thinkin’.’
‘Why? Is the baby worse? Have you been in?’
‘Na, na,’ replied Geordie cautiously, ‘a’ll no gang where a’m no wanted.
But yon puir thing, ye can hear ootside weepin’ and moanin’.’
‘She’ll maybe need ye tae,’ he went on dubiously to me. ‘Ye’re a kind
o’ doctor, a’ hear,’ not committing himself to any opinion as to my
professional value. But Slavin would have none of me, having got the
doctor sober enough to prescribe.
The interest of the camp in Slavin was greatly increased by the illness
of his baby, which was to him as the apple of his eye. There were a few
who, impressed by Geordie’s profound convictions upon the matter,
were inclined to favour the retribution theory, and connect the baby’s
illness with the vengeance of the Almighty. Among these few was Slavin
himself, and goaded by his remorseful terrors he sought relief in drink.
But this brought him only deeper and fiercer gloom; so that between her
suffering child and her savagely despairing husband, the poor mother was
desperate with terror and grief.
‘Ah! madame,’ she sobbed to Mrs. Mavor, ‘my heart is broke for him. He’s
heet noting for tree days, but jis dreenk, dreenk, dreenk.’
The next day a man came for me in haste. The baby was dying and the
doctor was drunk. I found the little one in a convulsion lying across
Mrs. Mavor’s knees, the mother kneeling beside it, wringing her hands in
a dumb agony, and Slavin standing near, silent and suffering. I glanced
at the bottle of medicine upon the table and asked Mrs. Mavor the dose,
and found the baby had been poisoned. My look of horror told Slavin
something was wrong, and striding to me he caught my arm and asked--
‘What is it? Is the medicine wrong?’
I tried to put him off, but his grip tightened till his fingers seemed
to reach the bone.
‘The dose is certainly too large; but let me go, I must do something.’
He let me go at once, saying in a voice that made my heart sore for him,
‘He has killed my baby; he has killed my baby.’ And then he cursed the
doctor with awful curses, and with a look of such murderous fury on his
face that I was glad the doctor was too drunk to appear.
His wife hearing his curses, and understanding the cause, broke out into
wailing hard to bear.
‘Ah! mon petit ange! It is dat wheeskey dat’s keel mon baby. Ah! mon
cheri, mon amour. Ah! mon Dieu! Ah, Michael, how often I say that
wheeskey he’s not good ting.’
It was more than Slavin could bear, and with awful curses he passed
out. Mrs. Mavor laid the baby in its crib, for the convulsion had
passed away; and putting her arms about the wailing little Frenchwoman,
comforted and soothed her as a mother might her child.
‘And you must help your husband,’ I heard her say. ‘He will need you
more than ever. Think of him.’
‘Ah oui! I weel,’ was the quick reply, and from that moment there was no
more wailing.
It seemed no more than a minute till Slavin came in again, sober, quiet,
and steady; the passion was all gone from his face, and only the grief
remained.
As we stood leaning over the sleeping child the little thing opened its
eyes, saw its father, and smiled. It was too much for him. The big man
dropped on his knees with a dry sob.
‘Is there no chance at all, at all?’ he whispered, but I could give
him no hope. He immediately rose, and pulling himself together, stood
perfectly quiet.
A new terror seized upon the mother.
‘My baby is not--what you call it?’ going through the form of baptism.
‘An’ he will not come to la sainte Vierge,’ she said, crossing herself.
‘Do not fear for your little one,’ said Mrs. Mavor, still with her arms
about her. ‘The good Saviour will take your darling into His own arms.’
But the mother would not be comforted by this. And Slavin too, was
uneasy.
‘Where is Father Goulet?’ he asked.
‘Ah! you were not good to the holy pere de las tam, Michael,’ she
replied sadly. ‘The saints are not please for you.’
‘Where is the priest?’ he demanded.
‘I know not for sure. At de Landin’, dat’s lak.’
‘I’ll go for him,’ he said. But his wife clung to him, beseeching him
not to leave her, and indeed he was loth to leave his little one.
I found Craig and told him the difficulty. With his usual promptness, he
was ready with a solution.
‘Nixon has a team. He will go.’ Then he added, ‘I wonder if they would
not like me to baptize their little one. Father Goulet and I have
exchanged offices before now. I remember how he came to one of my people
in my absence, when she was dying, read with her, prayed with her,
comforted her, and helped her across the river. He is a good soul, and
has no nonsense about him. Send for me if you think there is need. It
will make no difference to the baby, but it will comfort the mother.’
Nixon was willing enough to go; but when he came to the door Mrs. Mavor
saw the hard look in his face. He had not forgotten his wrong, for day
by day he was still fighting the devil within that Slavin had called to
life. But Mrs. Mavor, under cover of getting him instructions, drew him
into the room. While listening to her, his eyes wandered from one to the
other of the group till they rested upon the little white face in the
crib. She noticed the change in his face.
‘They fear the little one will never see the Saviour if it is not
baptized,’ she said, in a low tone.
He was eager to go.
‘I’ll do my best to get the priest,’ he said, and was gone on his sixty
miles’ race with death.
The long afternoon wore on, but before it was half gone I saw Nixon
could not win, and that the priest would be too late, so I sent for Mr.
Craig. From the moment he entered the room he took command of us all.
He was so simple, so manly, so tender, the hearts of the parents
instinctively turned to him.
As he was about to proceed with the baptism, the mother whispered to
Mrs. Mavor, who hesitatingly asked Mr. Craig if he would object to using
holy water.
‘To me it is the same as any other,’ he replied gravely.
‘An’ will he make the good sign?’ asked the mother timidly.
And so the child was baptized by the Presbyterian minister with holy
water and with the sign of the cross. I don’t suppose it was orthodox,
and it rendered chaotic some of my religious notions, but I thought more
of Craig that moment than ever before. He was more man than minister, or
perhaps he was so good a minister that day because so much a man. As he
read about the Saviour and the children and the disciples who tried to
get in between them, and as he told us the story in his own simple
and beautiful way, and then went on to picture the home of the little
children, and the same Saviour in the midst of them, I felt my heart
grow warm, and I could easily understand the cry of the mother--
‘Oh, mon Jesu, prenez moi aussi, take me wiz mon mignon.’
The cry wakened Slavin’s heart, and he said huskily--
‘Oh! Annette! Annette!’
‘Ah, oui! an’ Michael too!’ Then to Mr. Craig--
‘You tink He’s tak me some day? Eh?’
‘All who love Him,’ he replied.
‘An’ Michael too?’ she asked, her eyes searching his face, ‘An’ Michael
too?’
But Craig only replied: ‘All who love Him.’
‘Ah, Michael, you must pray le bon Jesu. He’s garde notre mignon.’ And
then she bent over the babe, whispering--
‘Ah, mon cheri, mon amour, adieu! adieu! mon ange!’ till Slavin put
his arms about her and took her away, for as she was whispering her
farewells, her baby, with a little answering sigh, passed into the House
with many rooms.
‘Whisht, Annette darlin’; don’t cry for the baby,’ said her husband.
‘Shure it’s better off than the rest av us, it is. An’ didn’t ye hear
what the minister said about the beautiful place it is? An’ shure he
wouldn’t lie to us at all.’ But a mother cannot be comforted for her
first-born son.