HAPPY CAL
One of the nondescript beach characters bears, or did bear, the somewhat
deceptive sobriquet of “Happy Cal.” His little shanty was on the sand
about two hundred feet from the lake. The grizzled head, the gnarled
rugged hands, the sinewy but slightly bent figure, betokened one who had
met tempests on the highways of life. The deep set gray eyes were
without luster, although they occasionally twinkled with quiet humor.
The slightly retreating chin, which could be discerned through the white
beard when his profile was against the light, offered a key to the
frailty of his character. The power of combat was not there. He had
yielded to the storms. He said they called him “Happy Cal” because he
wasn’t happy at all.
One dreary forenoon, when the black clouds piled up over the lake in the
northwest and the big drops began to come, I went to Cal’s shanty and
was cordially asked to put my sketching outfit behind an old soap-box
back of the door. It is needless to say that he had acquired this
soap-box when it was empty. A long cigar and the recollection of a
former visit put him at his ease.
The rain increased, and the breakers began to roar on the beach. The
wind whistled through the crevices in the side of the shanty, and Cal
went out to stuff them with some strips of rotten canvas that he had
probably picked up along the shore. It was quite characteristic of Cal
to delay this stuffing until stern necessity made it imperative.
He came in dripping wet, and asked if I happened to have a bottle with
me. The stove was a metamorphosed hot-water tank. The rusty cylinder had
been found somewhere among some junk years before. He had made an
opening in the front for the wood, a hole in the bottom provided for the
draft and the egress of the ashes, and a stove pipe, that had seen
better days, led through a hole in the irregular roof.
A fire was soon singing in the cylinder, and under its genial warmth
Happy Cal became reminiscent.
“I’ve had some mighty strange experiences since I’ve bin livin’ ’ere,”
he began. “About nine years ago they was a shipwreck out ’ere that
raised the devil with all on board an’ with me too. Nobody got drownded,
but it would ’ave bin a good thing if some of ’em had.
“It was late in November an’ nobody ’ad any business navigatin’ the
lake, ’less they ’ad to, ’cause when it gits to blowin’ out ’ere at that
time o’ year, it blows without any trouble at all. A big gale come up in
the night an’ the breakers was tearin’ away at a great rate, an’ they
swashed ’most up to the shanty. I was settin’ up in the bunk playin’
sollytare, an’ wonderin’ if the shanty was goin’ to git busted up, when
I thought I heard voices. I lit my lantern an’ went out to see what was
doin’ an’ I saw a light a little ways out an’ heard somebody yellin’.
“There was a big schooner almost on the shore. She was poundin’ up an’
down on the bottom in about five feet o’ water. The big rollers was
takin’ ’er up an’ smashin’ ’er down so you could hear it a mile. Pretty
soon the light went out an’ after that four o’ the wettest fellers y’
ever seen came pilin’ in with the breakers. I grabbed one of ’em that
was bein’ washed back agin’, an’ after that I got another one that
seemed to be pretty near dead. The other two got out all right by
themselves, but they was pretty shaky. They helped me git the others up
to the shanty, an’ they was a sight o’ pity when we got ’em there.
“I put some more wood in the stove an’ gave ’em all some whisky. They
was about a pint left in a gallon jug that I got about a week before,
with some money I got fer a bunch o’ rabbits. I don’t drink much, but I
like to keep sumpen in the shanty in case somebody should git
ship-wrecked, an’ it might be me, but I ain’t got none now. I went on
the water wagon about an hour ago, an’ I’m afraid I’m goin’ to fall off
if I git a chance.
“Them fellers lapped up the booze like it was milk, an’ when they found
they wasn’t any more they got mad an’ said I was runnin’ a temperance
joint. Then they asked me sarcastic if I had any soft drinks, an’ I told
’em they’d find plenty outside. I fried ’em some fish an’ they et up all
the crackers I had. Then one of ’em got my pipe an’ smoked it.
“They were a tough lot an’ when they got all dried out an’ fed they got
to cussin’ each other. I told ’em if they wanted to fight to git out fer
I didn’t want no scrappin’ in the shanty. Then two of ’em clinched an’ I
shoved ’em out doors. Then the others went out an’ pitched on both of
’em. After that they all piled inside agin’ an’ over went the stove. In
a few minutes the place looked like it ’ad bin blowed up. We got the
stove up after a while, but I lit out up the ravine an’ stayed there
pretty near the rest o’ the night, waitin’ fer a calm in the shanty.
Hell was poppin’ down there an’ ev’ry minute I was expectin’ to see the
sides fly out.
“’Long toward mornin’ I took a sneak down an’ peeked in. Them sailors
was all settin’ in there quiet as lambs, playin’ cards with my deck an’
usin’ all my matches fer chips. I opened the door an’ spoke pleasant
like to ’em but they told me to git out fer the place ’ad changed hands.
After a while, when they found they couldn’t make the stove work, they
let me in an’ we had some coffee.”
There are some visitors who make calls, others who come and visit, and
still others who make visitations. It was not difficult to classify
Cal’s guests as he proceeded with his story.
“It seems that them devils,” continued Cal, “had started down the lake
with a load o’ slabs an’ some lumber from one o’ the saw mills up north.
One of ’em’s name was Burke, an’ ’e got to scrappin’ with the cap’n, a
feller named Swanson, about the grub they had on board. The other two
butted in an’ said they wasn’t goin’ to eat no more beans, an’ the
feller at the wheel headed the vessel--the Mud Hen ’er name
was--straight fer the coast, an’ swore ’e’d hold ’er there ’till the
cap’n ’ud tell where some canned things was that ’e knew ’e had on
board hid, an’ a’ big jug that they seen ’im put on the night before
they sailed. They was about a mile off shore when the wind struck ’em,
an’ one o’ the wheel ropes busted, an’ before they could git things
fixed up they blowed in.
“They was all sore at the cap’n an’ the cap’n an’ the other two was sore
at the feller at the wheel, an’ ’e was sore at the whole bunch fer
cussin’ ’im, an’ so when they all got soaked it didn’t help things any,
an’ when they got dried out they begun beatin’ each other up.
“Olson, the one that ’ad bin pretty near drownded, couldn’t talk much
English, but him an’ me sort o’ took to each other after a couple o’
days, an’ ’e told me all about the doin’s on the boat.
“Swanson an’ Burke took my gun an’ went over in the back country an’
shot some tame ducks an’ brought ’em back to the shanty an’ wanted me to
fix ’em up to cook. When I was pickin’ ’em on the beach the owners come
over. They’d heard the shots an’ they found some tracks an’ seen where
they was some feathers. I told ’em I didn’t have nothin’ to do with it,
but as I was settin’ there undressin’ the fowls they seemed to think I
had, an’ I had a lot o’ trouble fixin’ things up.
“All this time the ol’ boat was layin’ in the shallow water keeled over
sideways, an’ badly busted up. We climbed into ’er an’ got out a lot o’
stuff, an’ that bunch was mighty glad to git the beans, an’ so was I. We
found the cap’n’s jug an’ the cans, an’ that night things broke loose
agin, an’ they all went on a bat. They went the limit an’ acted like a
lot o’ wild Indians. I poured about a quart out o’ the jug into a bottle
an’ hid it in some bushes, but they got to that, too. I told ’em I was
just tryin’ to save it fer ’em till the next day, but they got sore
about it. They only let me have two drinks from the whole jug.
“The next night they set the ol’ wreck afire an’ lit out. What they done
that fer I can’t make out. After she burnt down to the water, some big
combers washed ’er up on the beach one night an’ you can see what’s left
of ’er stickin’ up out there yet. They was a lot o’ good stuff in that
boat fer a nice new big cabin fer me, an’ I felt awful bad about it. I
saw the tracks of two of ’em goin’ up the
[Illustration:
The Wreck
of the
“Mud Hen”]
beach, an’ the others ’ad gone off in the hills, an’ I guess they’d ’ad
another row. They carried off my gun an’ my cards, an’ I never want to
see a bunch o’ lunatics like that agin. I’d as leave take in a lot o’
mad dogs as I would them geezers. I wish that dam’ Swede at the wheel
’ad headed ’is ol’ tub som’eres else, ’er sunk ’er out in the middle ’o
the lake, instid o’ shootin’ ’er in ’ere an’ fussin’ me all up. Them
fellers’ll be about as pop’lar as a skunk if they ever come ’round ’ere
agin.”
The remains of the poor old “Mud Hen” were visible about half a mile
down the coast. Her charred and broken ribs protruded from the sands
that had buried her keel, seemingly in mute protest against final
oblivion. The fate that evil company brings was hers, but her refuge is
now secure.
Happy Cal had been born and educated in a southern city. At twenty he
had fallen in love with a dark-haired, beautiful, and softly languorous
creature, with dreamy eyes, whose faded and worn photograph he produced
after a long search through the leaves of an old and very dirty book.
The book, which he also showed me, was rather anarchistic in character,
and its well-thumbed pages may have considerably influenced Cal’s lack
of faith in things in general.
After the exchange of fervent mutual vows, he had shouldered a musket
and answered the call of the cause that was lost on the battlefields of
the sixties.
After many vicissitudes and many months of suffering and hardship, poor
Cal, in a tattered uniform, found his way back through the mountains to
the altar on which he had laid his heart. He found the raven tresses on
the shoulder of another, and retreated into the soul darkness from which
he never emerged. He was only partially conscious of the weary miles and
aimless wanderings that eventually took him into the silence and
isolation of the sand hills, where he elected to abide in secrecy.
The golden chalice had been dashed from his lips--he had drunk of bitter
waters. His star had fallen, and, like a wounded animal, he had sought
the solitudes, beyond the arrows that had torn him.
The sad, lonely years in the little driftwood hut had benumbed the cruel
memories, but the problems of existence brought only partial
forgetfulness. Under the cold northern stars and during the winter
storms, his seared and tortured soul strove for peace, but it came not.
His sole companion in his exile was a big gray and white dog. He had
found the poor, half-starved, stray creature prowling around in the
vicinity of the hut one night, and had taken him in. Community of
interest had caused these two atoms to coalesce. The dogs name was Pete,
and it was Pete who was the indirect and innocent cause of Cal’s final
awakening to what he considered a sad reality a year or two later.
Pete got in contact with a voracious bulldog, that came from somewhere
over in the back country; and in the final analysis--in which the two
animals participated--Pete was left in a badly mangled condition.
Cal found him, and happening to be near the shanty of a neighbor,
several miles from his own shack, carried the unfortunate Pete tenderly
to shelter.
It was through this neighbor, another hermit, with another history, that
Cal got interested in a pile of old newspapers and magazines which had
been procured in some way by this isolated tenant of the sands, who
still maintained a lagging interest in the affairs of the outside world.
[Illustration: “PETE”]
During Pete’s convalescence, Cal found in one of these old papers an
account of a women’s rights meeting in his native city, in which his
former ideal of beauty and loveliness had taken a prominent part.
Her picture was in the paper and Cal was
[Illustration: “A Cactus at Fifty”]
disillusioned. The finger of time had touched the love of his youth and
she was ugly. The tender blossom of nineteen was a cactus at fifty. To
use his own phrase--“she looked like the breakin’ up of a hard winter.”
In addition to the picture, the report of the proceedings, during which
his former affinity had violently attacked what Cal considered were the
sacred prerogatives of the male sex, extinguished the last lingering
fond impression, and the lovely vision vanished.
He did not believe that women had sufficient intelligence to vote, and
the idea of their taking part in sage political councils was repugnant
to him. While he did not vote himself, he said that there “was plenty o’
men to ’tend to them things, an’ its foolish to allow women to git mixed
up in the govament.”
This wise and smug anti-suffragist thought that the female sex “should
be allowed to meet, if they want to, but they hadn’t ought a butt in on
things that require superior intelligence.”
The newspaper cut had done its awful work on Cal, and women’s rights had
completed the demolition of an ideal that had been cherished through the
years. His idol had crumbled and turned to ashes, and his dog was now
the only live thing that he considered worthy of affection.
The story had in it much pathos, but interspersed through it was a great
deal of picturesque profanity, particularly in connection with the idea
of women casting votes, which had aroused the dormant passions of his
nature.
The storm was over. I left him a small supply of tobacco, promised to
drop in again, and bade him good-bye.
* * * * *
Several days later, in talking with Sipes, I happened to mention Cal’s
sad life history. He laughed and said that Cal was a liar.
“The real facts is ’e lived over in the back country fer twenty years,
an’ ’e was chased into the hills by ’is wife an’ mother-in-law fer good
an’ sufficient reasons. He handed me all that dope oncet about some girl
’e was stuck on some’res down south. It’s all right fer an old cuss like
’im to set ’round an’ talk, but ’e was just ’avin’ dizzy dreams, an’ you
fergit ’em. If ’e’d only tell the truth, the way I always do, ’e
wouldn’t never have no trouble, an’ folks would ’ave some respect fer
’im, like they do fer me.”
* * * * *
A year elapsed before I again saw the little shanty. The drifting sands
had partially covered it, and my knock was unanswered. Several boards
were missing from the roof, and through a wide crack I saw that
occupation had ceased. The bunk was covered with débris. There were
some empty cans on the floor and, I am sorry to say, a few bottles, but
Happy Cal was gone.
Let us hope that the wave of fortune or misfortune that took this poor
piece of human driftwood on its crest carried him to some far-off,
sun-kissed, and glorious shore, where there is no political equality,
and where women have no rights.
Either he had spent a most pathetic and adventurous life, or he was one
of the most delightful liars I ever listened to.
[Illustration: “CATFISH JOHN”]
[Illustration:
The Home
of
“Catfish John”]