THE HOME-COMING OF THE SHANTYMEN
For some weeks Ranald was not seen by any one belonging to the manse.
Hughie reported that he was not at church, nor at Bible class, and
although this was not in itself an extraordinary thing, still
Mrs. Murray was uneasy, and Hughie felt that church was a great
disappointment when Ranald was not there.
In their visits to Macdonald Dubh the minister and his wife never
could see Ranald. His Aunt Kirsty could not understand or explain his
reluctance to attend the public services, nor his unwillingness to
appear in the house on the occasion of the minister's visits. “He is
busy with the fences and about the stables preparing for the spring's
work,” she said; “but, indeed, he is very queer whatever, and I cannot
make him out at all.” Macdonald Dubh himself said nothing. But the books
and magazines brought by the minister's wife were always read. “Indeed,
when once he gets down to his book,” his aunt complained, “neither his
bed nor his dinner will move him.”
The minister thought little of the boy's “vagaries,” but to his wife
came many an anxious thought about Ranald and his doings. She was more
disappointed than she cared to confess, even to herself, that the boy
seemed to be quite indifferent to the steadily deepening interest in
spiritual things that marked the members of her Bible class.
While she was planning how to reach him once more, an event occurred
which brought him nearer to her than he had ever been before. As they
were sitting one evening at tea, the door unexpectedly opened, and
without announcement, in walked Ranald, splashed with hard riding, pale,
and dazed. Without a word of reply to the greetings that met him from
all at the table, he went straight to the minister's wife, handed her
an opened letter, and stood waiting. It was addressed to Ranald himself,
and was the first he had ever received in his life. It was from Yankee
Jim, and read as follows:
Dear Ranald--The Boss aint feelin like ritin much and the rest of the
boys is all broke up, and so he told me to rite to you and to tell you
some purty bad news. I don't know how to go about it, but the fact is,
Mack Cameron got drownded yesterday tryin to pull a little fool of a
Frenchman out of the river just below the Lachine. We'd just got through
the rough water and were lyin nice and quiet, gettin things together
again when that ijit Frenchman got tite and got tryin some fool trick or
other walking a timber stick and got upsot into the wet. I'd a let him
go, you bet, but Mack cudn't stand to see him bobbin up and down so he
ripped off and in after him. He got him too, but somehow the varmint
gripped him round the neck. They went down but we got em out purty
quick and the Frenchman come round all right, but somehow Mack wouldn't,
choked appearinly by that tarnel little fool who aint worth one of
Mack's fingers, and if killin him wud do any good, then he wudn't be
livin long. We are all feelin purty bad. We are comin' home on Thursday
by Cornwall, eight or ten of us. The rest will go on with the rafts. The
Boss says, better have rigs to meet us and Mack. That's all. I haint
no good at weepin', never was, wish I cud somehow, it might ease off a
feller a little, but tell you what, Ranald, I haint felt so queer since
I was a boy lookin at my mother in her coffin. There was nothin mean
about Mack. He was good to the heart. He wud do his work slick and never
a growl or a groan, and when you wanted a feller to your back, Mack was
there. I know there aint no use goin on like this. All I say is, ther's
a purty big hole in the world for us to-night. Boss says you'd better
tell the minister. He says he's good stuff and he'll know what to do at
Mack's home. No more at present. Good-bye. Yours truely,
J. LATHAM.
The minister's wife began reading the letter, wondering not a little
at Ranald's manner, but when she came to the words, “Mack Cameron got
drownded,” she laid the letter down with a little cry. Her husband came
quickly to her, took up the letter, and read it to the end.
“I will go at once,” he said, and rang the bell. “Tell Lambert to
put Black in the buggy immediately, Jessie,” he said, when the maid
appeared. “Do you think you ought to go, my dear?”
“Yes, yes, I shall be ready in a moment; but, oh, what can we do or
say?”
“Perhaps you had better not go. It will be very trying,” said the
minister.
“Oh, yes, I must go. I must. The poor mother!” Then she turned to Ranald
as the minister left the room. “You are going home, Ranald, I suppose,”
she said.
“No, I was thinking I would go to tell the people. Donald Ross will
go, and the Campbells, and Farquhar McNaughton's light wagon would be
best--for the--for Mack. And then I will go round by the McGregors.”
Ranald had been thinking things out and making his plans.
“But that will be a long round for you,” said Mrs. Murray. “Could not we
go by the Campbells', and they will send word to Donald Ross?”
“I think it would be better for me to go, to make sure of the teams.”
“Very well, then. Good by, Ranald,” said the minister's wife, holding
out her hand to him.
But still Ranald lingered. “It will be hard on Bella Peter,” he said, in
a low voice, looking out of the window.
“Bella Peter? Bella McGregor?”
“Yes,” said Ranald, embarrassed and hesitating. “She was Mack's--Mack
was very fond of her, whatever.”
“Oh, Ranald!” she cried, “do you say so? Are you sure of that?”
“Yes, I am sure,” said Ranald, simply. “The boys in the shanty would be
teasing Mack about it, and one day Mack told me something, and I know
quite well.”
“I will go to her,” said Mrs. Murray.
“That will be very good,” said Ranald, much relieved. “And I will be
going with you that way.”
As Mrs. Murray left the room, Maimie came around to where Ranald was
standing and said to him, gently, “You knew him well, didn't you?”
“Yes,” replied Ranald, in an indifferent tone, as if unwilling to talk
with her about it.
“And you were very fond of him?” went on Maimie.
Ranald caught the tremor in her voice and looked at her. “Yes,” he said,
with an effort. “He was good to me in the camp. Many's the time he made
it easy for me. He was next to Macdonald Bhain with the ax, and, man,
he was the grand fighter--that is,” he added, adopting the phrase of
the Macdonald gang, “when it was a plain necessity.” Then, forgetting
himself, he began to tell Maimie how Big Mack had borne himself in
the great fight a few weeks before. But he had hardly well begun when
suddenly he stopped with a groan. “But now he is dead--he is dead. I
will never see him no more.”
He was realizing for the first time his loss. Maimie came nearer him,
and laying her hand timidly on his arm, said, “I am sorry, Ranald”;
and Ranald turned once more and looked at her, as if surprised that she
should show such feeling.
“Yes,” he said, “I believe you are sorry.”
Her big blue eyes filled suddenly with tears.
“Do you wonder that I am sorry? Do you think I have no heart at all?”
she burst forth, impetuously.
“Indeed, I don't know,” said Ranald. “Why should you care? You do not
know him.”
“But haven't you just told me how splendid he was, and how good he was
to you, and how much you thought of him, and--” Maimie checked her rush
of words with a sudden blush, and then hurried on to say, “Besides,
think of his mother, and all of them.”
While Maimie was speaking, Ranald had been scanning her face as if
trying to make up his mind about her.
“I am glad you are sorry,” he said, slowly, gazing with so searching a
look into her eyes that she let them fall.
At this moment Mrs. Murray entered ready for her ride.
“Is the pony come?” she asked.
“Indeed, it is the slouch I am,” said Ranald, and he hurried off to the
stable, returning in a very short time with the pony saddled.
“You would not care to go with your uncle, Maimie?” said Mrs. Murray, as
Lambert drove up Black in the buggy.
“No, auntie, I think not,” said Maimie. “I will take care of Hughie and
the baby.”
“Good by, then, my dear,” said Mrs. Murray, kissing her.
“Good by, Ranald,” said Maimie, as he turned away to get his colt.
“Good by,” he said, awkwardly. He felt like lifting his cap, but
hesitated to do anything so extremely unnatural. With the boys in that
country such an act of courtesy was regarded as a sign of “pride,” if
not of weakness.
Their way lay along the concession line for a mile, and then through the
woods by the bridle-path to Peter McGregor's clearing. The green grass
ran everywhere--along the roadside, round the great stump roots, over
the rough pasture-fields, softening and smoothing wherever it went. The
woods were flushing purple, with just a tinge of green from the bursting
buds. The balsams and spruces still stood dark in the swamps, but the
tamaracks were shyly decking themselves in their exquisite robes of
spring, and through all the bush the air was filled with soft sounds
and scents. In earth and air, in field and forest, life, the new spring
life, ran riot. How strangely impertinent death appeared, and how
unlovely in such a world of life!
As they left the concession road and were about to strike into the
woods, Mrs. Murray checked her pony, and looking upon the loveliness
about her, said, softly, “How beautiful it all is!”
There was no response from Ranald, and Mrs. Murray, glancing at his
gloomy face, knew that his heart was sore at the thought of the pain
they were bearing with them. She hesitated a few moments, and then said,
gently: “And I saw a new heaven and a new earth. And there shall be no
more death.”
But still Ranald made no reply, and they rode on through the bush in
silence till they came to the clearing beyond. As they entered the
brule, Ranald checked his colt, and holding up his hand, said, “Listen!”
Through the quiet evening air, sweet and clear as a silver bell, came
the long, musical note of the call that brings the cows home for the
milking. It was Bella's voice: “Ko--boss, ko--boss, ko--boss!”
Far across the brule they could see her standing on a big pine stump
near the bars, calling to her cows that were slowly making toward her
through the fallen timber, pausing here and there to crop an especially
rich mouthful, and now and then responding to her call with soft
lowings. Gently Bella chid them. “Come, Blossom, come away now; you are
very lazy. Come, Lily; what are you waiting for? You slow old poke!”
Then again the long, musical note: “Ko--boss, ko--boss, ko--boss!”
Ranald groaned aloud, “Och-hone! It will be her last glad hour,” he
said; “it is a hard, hard thing.”
“Poor child, poor child!” said Mrs. Murray; “the Lord help her. It will
be a cruel blow.”
“That it is, a cruel blow,” said Ranald, bitterly; so bitterly that Mrs.
Murray glanced at him in surprise and saw his face set in angry pain.
“The Lord knows best, Ranald,” she said, gravely, “and loves best, too.”
“It will break her heart, whatever,” answered Ranald, shortly.
“He healeth the broken in heart,” said Mrs. Murray, softly. Ranald made
no reply, but let the colt take her way through the brule toward the
lane into which Bella had now got her cows. How happy the girl was! Joy
filled every tone of her voice. And why not? It was the springtime, the
time of life and love. Long winter was gone, and soon her brothers would
be back from the shanties. “And Mack, too,” she whispered to her happy
heart.
“And are ye sure the news is true?
And are ye sure he's weel?
Is this a time to think o' wark?
Ye jades, fling by your wheel.
“For there's nae luck aboot the hoose,
There's nae luck ava,
There's little pleesure in the hoose
When oor gude man's awa.”
So she sang, not too loud; for the boys were at the barn and she would
never hear the end of it.
“Well, Bella, you are getting your cows home. How are you, my dear?”
Bella turned with a scarlet face to meet the minister's wife, and her
blushes only became deeper when she saw Ranald, for she felt quite
certain that Ranald would understand the meaning of her song.
“I will go on with the cows,” said Ranald, in a hoarse voice, and Mrs.
Murray, alighting, gave him her pony to lead.
Peter McGregor was a stern man to his own family, and to all the world,
with the single exception of his only daughter, Bella. His six boys he
kept in order with a firm hand, and not one of them would venture to
take a liberty with him. But Bella had no fear of his grim face and
stern ways, and “just twiddled her father round her finger,” as her
mother said, with a great show of impatience. But, in spite of all
her petting from her big brothers and her father, Bella remained quite
unspoiled, the light of her home and the joy of her father's heart. It
had not escaped the father's jealous eye that Big Mack Cameron found
occasion for many a visit to the boys on an evening when the day's work
was done, and that from the meetings he found his shortest way home
round by the McGregor's. At first the old man was very gruff with him,
and was for sending him about his business, but his daughter's happy
face, and the light in her eyes, that could mean only one thing, made
him pause, and after a long and sleepless night, he surprised his
daughter the next morning with a word of gentle greeting and an unusual
caress, and thenceforth took Big Mack to his heart. Not that any word or
explanation passed between them; it had not come to that as yet; but
Big Mack felt the change, and gave him thenceforth the obedience and
affection of a son.
The old man was standing in the yard, waiting to help with the milking.
Ranald drove the cows in, and then, tying up the horses, went straight
to him.
“I bring bad news, Mr. McGregor,” he said, anxious to get done with his
sad task. “There has been an accident on the river, and Mack Cameron is
drowned.”
“What do you say, boy?” said Peter, in a harsh voice.
“He was trying to save a Frenchman, and when they got him out he was
dead,” said Ranald, hurrying through his tale, for he saw the two
figures coming up the lane and drawing nearer.
“Dead!” echoed the old man. “Big Mack! God help me.”
“And they will be wanting a team,” continued Ranald, “to go to Cornwall
to-morrow.”
The old man stood for a few moments, looking stupidly at Ranald. Then,
lifting his hat from his gray head, he said, brokenly: “My poor girl!
Would God I had died for him.”
Ranald turned away and stood looking down the lane, shrinking from the
sight of the old man's agony. Then, turning back to him, he said: “The
minister's wife is coming yonder with Bella.”
The old man started, and with a mighty effort commanding himself, said,
“Now may God help me!” and went to meet his daughter.
Through the gloom of the falling night Ranald could see the frightened
white face and the staring, tearless eyes. They came quite near before
Bella caught sight of her father. For a moment she hesitated, till the
old man, without a word, beckoned her to him. With a quick little run
she was in his arms, where she lay moaning, as if in sore bodily pain.
Her father held her close to him, murmuring over her fond Gaelic words,
while Ranald and Mrs. Murray went over to the horses and stood waiting
there.
“I will go now to Donald Ross,” Ranald said, in a low voice, to the
minister's wife. He mounted the colt and was riding off, when Peter
called him back.
“The boys will take the wagon to-morrow,” he said.
“They will meet at the Sixteenth at daylight,” replied Ranald; and then
to Mrs. Murray he said, “I will come back this way for you. It will soon
be dark.”
But Bella, hearing him, cried to her: “Oh, you will not go?”
“Not if you need me, Bella,” said Mrs. Murray, putting her arms around
her. “Ranald will run in and tell them at home.” This Ranald promised to
do, and rode away on his woeful journey; and before he reached home that
night, the news had spread far and wide, from house to house, like a
black cloud over a sunny sky.
The home-coming of the men from the shanties had ever been a time of
rejoicing in the community. The Macdonald gang were especially welcome,
for they always came back with honor and with the rewards of their
winter's work. There was always a series of welcoming gatherings in the
different homes represented in the gang, and there, in the midst of the
admiring company, tales would be told of the deeds done and the trials
endured, of the adventures on the river and the wonders of the cities
where they had been. All were welcome everywhere, and none more than Big
Mack Cameron. Brimming with good nature, and with a remarkable turn for
stories, he was the center of every group of young people wherever he
went; and at the “bees” for logging or for building or for cradling, Big
Mack was held in honor, for he was second in feats of strength only to
Macdonald Bhain himself. It was with no common grief that people heard
the word that they were bringing him home dead.
At the Sixteenth next morning, before the break of day, Ranald stood in
the gloom waiting for the coming of the teams. He had been up most of
the night and he was weary in body and sore at heart, but Macdonald
Bhain had trusted him, and there must be no mistake. One by one the
teams arrived. First to appear was Donald Ross, the elder. For years he
had given over the driving of his team to his boys, but to-day he felt
that respect to the family demanded his presence on such an errand as
this; and besides, he knew well that his son Dannie, Mack's special
chum, would expect him to so honor the home-coming of his dead friend.
Peter McGregor, fearing to leave his daughter for that long and lonely
day, sent his son John in his place. It was with difficulty that Mack's
father, Long John Cameron, had been persuaded to remain with the mother
and to allow Murdie to go in his stead.
The last to arrive was Farquhar McNaughton, Kirsty's Farquhar, with his
fine black team and new light wagon. To him was to be given the honor
of bearing the body home. Gravely they talked and planned, and then left
all to Ranald to execute.
“You will see to these things, Ranald, my man,” said Donald Ross, with
the air of one giving solemn charge. “Let all things be done decently
and in order.”
“I will try,” said Ranald, simply. But Farquhar McNaughton looked at him
doubtfully.
“It is a peety,” he said, “there is not one with more experience. He is
but a lad.”
But Donald Ross had been much impressed with Ranald's capable manner the
night before.
“Never you fear, Farquhar,” he replied; “Ranald is not one to fail us.”
As Ranald stood watching the wagons rumbling down the road and out of
sight, he felt as if years must have passed since he had received the
letter that had laid on him the heavy burden of this sad news. That his
uncle, Macdonald Bhain, should have sent the word to him brought Ranald
a sense of responsibility that awakened the man in him, and he knew he
would feel himself a boy no more. And with that new feeling of manhood
stirring within him, he went about his work that day, omitting no detail
in arrangement for the seemly conduct of the funeral.
Night was falling as the wagons rumbled back again from Cornwall,
bringing back the shantymen and their dead companion. Up through the
Sixteenth, where a great company of people stood silent and with bared
heads, the sad procession moved, past the old church, up through the
swamp, and so onward to the home of the dead. None of the Macdonald gang
turned aside to their homes till they had given their comrade over
into the keeping of his own people. By the time the Cameron's gate was
reached the night had grown thick and black, and the drivers were glad
enough of the cedar bark torches that Ranald and Don waved in front of
the teams to light the way up the lane. In silence Donald Ross, who was
leading, drove up his team to the little garden gate and allowed the
great Macdonald and Dannie to alight.
At the gate stood Long John Cameron, silent and self-controlled, but
with face showing white and haggard in the light of the flaring torches.
Behind him, in the shadow, stood the minister. For a few moments they
all remained motionless and silent. The time was too great for words,
and these men knew when it was good to hold their peace. At length
Macdonald Bhain broke the silence, saying in his great deep voice, as he
bared his head: “Mr. Cameron, I have brought you back your son, and God
is my witness, I would his place were mine this night.”
“Bring him in, Mr. Macdonald,” replied the father, gravely and steadily.
“Bring him in. It is the Lord; let Him do what seemeth Him good.”
Then six of the Macdonald men came forward from the darkness, Curly and
Yankee leading the way, and lifted the coffin from Farquhar's wagon, and
reverently, with heads uncovered, they followed the torches to the door.
There they stopped suddenly, for as they reached the threshold, there
arose a low, long, heart-smiting cry from within. At the sound of that
cry Ranald staggered as if struck by a blow, and let his torch fall to
the ground. The bearers waited, looking at each other in fear.
“Whisht, Janet, woman!” said Long John, gravely. “Your son is at the
door.”
“Ah, indeed, that he is, that he is! My son! My son!”
She stood in the doorway with hands uplifted and with tears streaming
down her face. “Come in, Malcolm; come in, my boy. Your mother is
waiting for you.”
Then they carried him in and laid him in the “room,” and retiring to the
kitchen, sat down to watch the night.
In half an hour the father came out and found them there.
“You have done what you could, Mr. Macdonald,” he said, addressing him
for all, “and I will not be unmindful of your kindness. But now you can
do no more. Your wife and your people will be waiting you.”
“And, please God, in good time they will be seeing us. As for me, I will
neither go to my home nor up into my bed, but I will watch by the man
who was my faithful friend and companion till he is laid away.”
And in this mind he and his men remained firm, taking turns at the
watching all that night and the next day.
As Macdonald finished speaking, the minister came into the kitchen,
bringing with him the mother and the children. The men all rose to their
feet, doing respect to the woman and to her grief. When they were seated
again, the minister rose and said: “My friends, this is a night for
silence and not for words. The voice of the Lord is speaking in our
ears. It becomes us to hear, and to submit ourselves to His holy will.
Let us pray.”
As Ranald listened to the prayer, he could not help thinking how
different it was from those he was accustomed to hear from the pulpit.
Solemn, simple, and direct, it lifted the hearts of all present up to
the throne of God, to the place of strength and of peace. There was
no attempt to explain the “mystery of the Providence,” but there was
a sublime trust that refused to despair even in the presence of
impenetrable darkness.
After the minister had gone, Macdonald Bhain took Ranald aside and asked
him as to the arrangements for the funeral. When Ranald had explained to
him every detail, Macdonald laid his hand on his nephew's shoulder and
said, kindly, “It is well done, Ranald. Now you will be going home, and
in the morning you will see your aunt, and if she will be wishing to
come to the wake to-morrow night, then you will bring her.”
Then Ranald went home, feeling well repaid for his long hours of anxiety
and toil.