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BENTON
OF THE
ROYAL MOUNTED
A TALE OF THE ROYAL
NORTHWEST MOUNTED POLICE
BY
RALPH S. KENDALL
"Let us now praise famous men"--
Men of little showing--
For their work continueth,
And their work continueth,
Broad and deep continueth,
Greater than their knowing!
_--Kipling_
GROSSET & DUNLAP
PUBLISHERS--NEW YORK
Copyright 1918 by John Lane Company
FOREWORD
The scenes of this story belong to bygone days. As the passer-by views
the ugly half-constructed railway terminus which now sprawls itself over
the original site of that historic group of Police buildings, known as
the "Post," little does he appreciate the pangs of real regret which
stir the hearts of old members of the Force, as they recall associations
of earlier years.
Scattered now beyond the writer's ken are those good fellows with whom
he served in years gone by. They were men of a type fast disappearing,
with whom any one would have been proud to associate and call
"comrades." No longer do those once orderly grounds resound with the
clear notes of the trumpet-call, the neighing of troop-horses, or the
harsh-barked word of command. Gone is the old Guardroom at the gates of
the main entrance. The spot where the O.C.'s house lay half hidden
amidst its clustering shrubbery and trim, well-kept lawn and kitchen
garden, is now but a drab area of railway tracks. Missing is the
towering flag staff, from whose top-gaff, visible for miles around,
there flew from "Reveille" to "Retreat" the brave emblem of our Empire.
But today, while these lines are being penned, many members and
ex-members of the old Force are still sternly serving that flag; gaining
well-deserved military honors, shedding their blood, and laying down
their lives in the great and terrible struggle for supremacy between
Human Liberty, and Iron Oppression that overshadows the world.
Aye! ... small wonder that the sight of the old spot awakens strange
memories in those of us who were stationed there in our youth. Members
of a force of comparatively small numbers, it is true, but with a
reputation for efficiency, discipline, and stern adherence to duty which
has rarely been equaled, and is too widely known to need any further
eulogy in this story.
--R. S. K.
PART I
CHAPTER I
"We've some of us prospered, and some of us failed.
But we all of us heave a sigh
When we think of the times that we used to have
In those happy days gone by.
When we used to whistle, and work, and sing,
Make love, drink, gamble, and have our fling;
Caring little for what the morrow might bring--
In those good old days gone by."
--_Memories_
With the outlines of its shadowy white walls and dark roof silhouetted
in sharp relief against a glorious full moon, the big main building of
the old Mounted Police Post of L Division stood forth--like a lone
monument to the majesty of British Law. A turfed "square," framed within
a border of whitewashed stones, lay at its front like a black carpet.
Clustered about the central structure were the long, low-lying
guardroom, stables, quartermaster's store, and several smaller adjacent
buildings comprising "the Barracks." Stray patches of silvery light
illuminated the dark recesses between them. It was a perfect night
following an unparalleled June day in sunny South Alberta.
The "Post," with its shadowy outlines, presented a striking contrast to
its activity by day. In the daytime gangs of prisoners in their
checkered jail garb were to be seen tramping sedately here and there,
engaged on various jobs about the carefully kept grounds. An armed
"escort" followed grimly behind each gang. Police teams, hitched to
buck-boards and heavy, high-seated transport wagons, arrived and
departed with a clatter. Mounted men, on big upstanding horses, came and
went continually, each rider intent upon his own particular mission. At
the guardroom, the quartermaster's store, and the orderly-room the same
ordered action and busy preoccupation were noticeable.
The only sounds that disturbed the peaceful serenity of the moonlit
scene proceeded from a lighted open window in the center of the main
building, where the men's quarters and the regimental canteen were
located. An uproarious hilarity resounded through the stillness; the
shrill yaps of a pup and the tinkling of a piano rising above the tumult
of song and laughter.
These jovial evidences of good fellowship floated across the square, not
unwelcomely, to the ears of a solitary rider, whose weary horse was
bearing him slowly along the hard graveled driveway which led from the
main gateway to the stables. Dismounting somewhat stiffly, the man stood
for a moment, listening to the sounds of revelry. He gazed silently
toward the beacon of good cheer which seemed to beckon him. Then
suddenly turning on his heel, he trudged wearily on to his destination,
leading his mount.
After spending half an hour or more in off-saddling, rubbing down, and
attending scrupulously, if mechanically, to his animal's wants, the
horseman emerged from the stable, locked the door, and walked slowly
across the square to the Canteen.
Duly arriving at his cheerful haven, the newcomer opened the canteen
door and for a moment or two silently contemplated the all-familiar
scene of a large, well-lighted room with a bar at one end, behind which,
on rows of shelves, were stacked various kinds of dry provisions,
tobacco in all its forms, and miscellaneous odds and ends of a mounted
policeman's requirements supplementary to his regular "kit."
Seated around small tables, playing cards, or else perched upon high
stools against the bar, he beheld a score or so of bronzed,
soldierly-looking men of all ages, ranging from twenty to forty. They
were dressed variously--some in the regulation uniform of the
Force--i.e., scarlet serge tunic, dark-blue cord riding-breeches with
the broad yellow stripe down the side, and high brown "Strathcona" boots
with straight-shanked, "cavalry jack" spurs attached. Some again--with
an eye to comfort alone--just in loose, easy, brown duck "fatigue
slacks." Many of the older members might have been remarked wearing the
active-service ribbons of former campaigns in which they had served.
Their day's duty over, careless and jovial they sat, amidst the
tobacco-smoke-hazy atmosphere, smoking and drinking their beer and
exchanging good-natured repartee which occasionally was of a nature that
has caused a certain great writer to affirm, with well-grounded
conviction, that "single men in barricks don't grow into plaster
saints." Poor enough stuff it was for the most part, I fancy, but there!
... we were easily satisfied--we were not inclined to be over-fastidious
in the Canteen, and anyhow ... it passed the time away.
At the piano was an ex-Dublin Fusileer, with a comical face and an
accent suggestive of "Silver Street," who acted as general accompanyist.
His own vocal talent was being contributed just now, and a chorus of
shouts, banging of beer tankards and stamping of feet greeted the final
verse of his song, the burden of which was--
"An' whin we gits to Donnybrook Fair, comes Thady, with his
fiddle,
An' all th' bhoys an' colleens there a-dancin' down th' middle;
Shpuds, shillaleghs, pigs an' potheen--all as ye thrapsed
along--
Hurroo! for a chune on th' nob av 'um who'd intherrrupt me
song!".
A little fox terrier pup, clinging with ludicrous gravity to a somewhat
precarious position behind a man who was perched all doubled up on one
of the high stools aforesaid, growled and snapped with puppy viciousness
at all teasing attempts to dislodge him, adding to the general uproar.
His master, Constable Markham, who, from certain indisputably "simian"
peculiarities of feature and habits, was not inaptly designated "the
Monk," had, as the result of his frequent libations, succeeded in
cultivating--what, in canteen parlance was termed--"a singing jag." Now,
elbows on bar, he began to bellow out a lone doggerel ditty for his own
exclusive benefit. Something where each bucolic verse wound up with--
"O be I I, or bain't I I--
I tell ee I bain't zuch a vule as I luke!"
The Orderly-room Sergeant, Dudley, a tall, good-looking fair man about
thirty, who, leaning on the bar alongside was endeavoring amidst the din
to carry on a conversation with a corporal named Harrison, turned
somewhat wearily to the maudlin vocalist.
"Oh, now, for the love of Mike! ... try an' forget it, Monk, do!" he
drawled. "Charity begins at home! ... as if there wasn't _enough_ racket
in here without you adding _your_ little pipe! ... sitting there all
humped up an' hawkin' away like a--old crow on his native muck-heap! ...
Be I I, or bain't I I?" he exploded, with a snort of derision at the
other's uncouth Somersetshire dialect, and after a long pause: "By gum!
there's no mistake about you ... you're well named! You'd be quite at
home in the jungle!"
He faced round again to the grinning corporal. "Say, Harrison," he
resumed, "don't know if Benton's come in yet, do you?" He lowered his
voice confidentially. "'Father's' called him in about something and I
want to see him directly he lands in--first crack out of the box."
His eyes, wandering vaguely over the noisy crowd as he spoke, suddenly
dilated with surprised recognition as they lighted upon the newcomer,
whose unobtrusive entrance amidst the general revelry had somehow
escaped his notice.
"Talk of the devil!" he ejaculated with easy incivility; "why here the
---- is! Why, hello, Ben! How's things goin' in Elbow Vale?"
The object of this familiarity, walking silently forward to the bar with
a whimsical smile on his bronzed, dusty countenance, merely opened his
mouth to which he pointed in dumb show.
"Dear me!" remarked the Orderly-room Sergeant sympathetically, "as bad
as all that? Here, Bob! set 'em up! ... give Sergeant Benton a 'long
'un'!"
The "long 'un" tendered by the canteen orderly arrived and disappeared,
another following speedily on top of it; their recipient then, his
thirst temporarily appeased, turned to the two non-coms.
There remains engraven indelibly upon the memory of the writer, as he
recalls the striking personal appearance and quietly forceful character
of Ellis Benton, a slightly saturnine, _still_ face, with high, bold,
regular features, suggestive rather of the ancient Roman type; coldly
handsome in its clean-cut patrician mold but marred somewhat by a
peculiar thin old scar, like a whip-lash, which extended from an angle
of the grim-lipped yet tender mouth up to the left cheek bone. This
facial disfigurement contrived to give him an expression of faint
perpetual cynicism, as it were, which was accentuated by a pair of
tired-looking pale gray eyes, deeply set under thick, dark, level
brows--eyes which seemed to glow at times with a somber light like
smoldering fire in their depths--eyes that were vaguely disturbing,
bidding you beware of the man's ruthless anger when aroused.
Altogether it was a remarkable face with its indefinable stamp of
iron-willed, quietly reckless courage, indicative of a strenuous past
and open with the possibilities for good or evil alike, as caprice
should happen to sway its possessor's varying moods.
And yet, strange to say, in spite of his hard-bitten, cynical exterior
and characteristics that verged sometimes on actual brutality, deep,
deep down in his complex soul Ellis Benton hid an almost womanish
tenderness, coupled with a sensitive artistic temperament that few were
aware of or would have credited. In figure he was splendidly
proportioned. Not overly tall, but with the lean, wiry flanks, broad,
square shoulders, and slim waist of the trained athlete that denoted
great activity, and the possession of immense concentrated strength
whenever he chose to use it. The "Stetson" hat, tipped back, exposed
slightly graying, closely cropped brown hair. But the young-looking face
dispelled at once the first impression of age, for Ellis was only
thirty-eight.
His well-fitting uniform, consisting of a "stable jacket" of the
regulation brown duck, on which were noticeable the "Distinguished
Conduct," and the "King's" and "Queen's" South African campaign ribbons,
riding-breeches, boots and spurs, was thickly covered with dust, for he
had ridden into the Post from his detachment which lay many weary miles
to the south.
"Well," he remarked to the Orderly-room Sergeant and, with significant
emphasis, "what's doin' now?"
For the most part he spoke lazily in the slipshod, drawling vernacular
acquired from long residence in the West, though when occasion arose he
could revert naturally and easily to the educated speech of his early
upbringing.
Dudley did not reply at first but shot a warning, almost imperceptible,
sidelong glance towards the crowd, enjoining silence. Obeying the
other's gesture, the detachment sergeant held his peace awhile, and
presently the two men, moving away from the bar, seated themselves at
one of the small tables and began to talk together earnestly in low
tones.
The clamor around them increased. Out broke the old barrack-room chorus
"Johnny Green," which, to the tune of the "Sailor's Hornpipe" goes, as
all Service men are aware:
"Oh, say, Johnny Green! did you ever see the Queen?
Did you ever catch a Blue-jacket lovin' a Marine?
May the Rock of Gibraltar take a runnin' jump at Malta
If I ever see a nigger with a white--rum-tum."
"So _that_," concluded the Orderly-room Sergeant, "is what the old man's
got you in for. Did you make a _good_ job of it?"
Benton's pale, deeply set eyes began to glow with their peculiar baleful
light.
"Did I?" he echoed mirthlessly. "Well, I should smile!... An' I'll make
a better one still when I go back. I'll bash that ---- till he spits
blood!"
He uttered the threat in an even, passionless, unraised voice, as if it
were just the merest commonplace remark. A canteen-chant held its own
with steady insistence:
Three--men--in-a-boat, inaboat,
Three--men--all-very-dry,
Three--men--ridin'-a-Nannygoat,
Go it you--! you've only one eye.
Dudley summarized briefly, in a tense undertone, the thing that Benton
need not be, regarding him closely meanwhile with slightly anxious eyes.
The bronzed, reckless face--naturally somber when in repose--wore a
terribly ruthless expression just then.
"Oh, now, forget it, Ben," was his half joking admonition. "What the
d--l's the use of you runnin' amuck again an' makin' bad worse?... That
won't help matters one little bit ... an' you know it."
Ever and anon--above the roar of the Canteen, not unlike the booming
note of a bittern amid the croaking and chirping of all the other lesser
denizens of some swamp--would rise the mighty brogue of the genial
Constable O'Hara, in a general exhortation to:
"Come on! Fwet yure whustles an' sing-g, ye scutts, with 'gr-reat
gusto.' For ut was:
Down, down, in swate Counthy Down,
An' th' pore ol' night-watchman was jus' passin' roun;
Puts his hand to his nob to feel where he was hit--
Sez he "Holy Shmoke! but Oi'm--"
The stentorian voice broke off short as the vocalist glanced
suspiciously at the empty glass at his elbow which a minute before had
been full.
"Here," quoth he with some heat; "who was ut dhrunk my beer?... Was ut
you, Tabuteau?... Eyah, now! but thot's a Galway man's thrick ivry
toime!... Fill ut up agin, an' kape ut filled contihnuous, tu, ye Fenian
rapparees, d'ye hear?... else, begob! ye can get some other shtiff tu
blow the 'Pipes av Pan' for ye!... Come on, now!... fwet yure whustles
an' opin yure thraps an' sing-g, ye half-baked omadhauns! ... Now, thin!
all together! For ut was:
Not las' night, but th' night behfure,
Tu tohm-cahts come a-knockin' at th' dhure"
Ellis remained very still for some time, staring at his companion with
an absent, brooding face.
"Just think what it'd mean," pursued Dudley. "As this matter stands just
now you _have_ got a reasonable show of getting away with it; but, I
tell you flat, old man ... a _second_ edition of it wouldn't go.... You
know what 'Father's' like in Orderly-room. You never know which way he's
going to jump.... You'd be 'broke' for a certainty, anyway.... I don't
want to see your name in 'G.O.'s' _that_ way.... Come, now! will you be
a wise guy an' listen to your Uncle Dud?"
Thus he pleaded with the man who was to him a comrade and a sincere
friend.
"Oh, well," responded Benton at last, wearily, with an oath. "I guess
I'll let up on that stiff this time. I handed him enough to last for a
bit, anyway, so that's some satisfaction."
He bit off the end of a cigar which the other handed to him, continuing:
"Oh, I'll get away with it all hunkadory ... been up against it before
... lots of times.... Guess I can make the grade--that is, if 'Father'
_does_ come to Orderly-room in anything like a good temper tomorrow."
Dudley, his point gained, got up and fetched two fresh tankards of beer.
"Were you ever at such a howling 'gaff' before in all your life?" he
remarked irritably. "I'll bet 'Father' can hear 'em right across the
square there." And, as a penetrating Cockney voice then uplifted itself,
"how's that for 'Whitechapel'? ... listen to 'Tork abaht Tompkins.'"
Too 'ard! too 'ard! An' th' ol' duck said,
as she waddled dahn th' yard
"Oh, I can 'atch a turkey or 'atch a chick
But I'm--if I can 'atch 'arf a brick!
It's a--bit bit,--bit, bit--bit bit too 'ard!"
His audience, tickled beyond measure at the inimitable "coster" accent
which, for many years has been so famously exploited by Mr. Albert
Chevalier, egged this performer on to further efforts. Nothing loath, he
complied, and presently the Canteen was shaking with:
Oh, nah I'm goin' to be a reg'lar torff,
A-drivin' in me kerridge an' me pair,
Wiv a top-'at on me 'ead, an' fevvers in me bed
An' call meself th' "Dook of Barney-fair."
"As-stir-th'-can" rahnd th' collar o' me coat,
An' a "Piccadilly winder" in me eye;
Goblimey! 'ear th' costers a-shoutin' in yer lug:
"Oh! leave us in yer will afore yer die!"
On went the singing, shouting pandemonium. Benton's face began to clear
a little. He had not been in the Post for a long time and the homely
racket and the beer combined, gradually had the effect of making him
forget his troubles for the time being.
An--d ... the elephant walked round,
And the band began to play,
So all you beggars that cannot sing!
You'd better get out of the way!
A dozen or so of unprintable "limericks" followed this announcement,
contributed in rotation by various members of the community, the
"elephant" chorus "walking around" solemnly at the conclusion of each
one. A particularly ingenious composition just then drew a perfect storm
of laughter from the genial crowd, Ellis (sad to relate) guffawing
loudly with the rest.
"Sacred Billy!" he ejaculated, grinning at Dudley, "but you're sure a
tough bunch in this old Post.... Did you hear that one?... Well!... this
is no place for a parson's son!"
The Orderly-room Sergeant did not answer for a moment, then an
expression, which was a mixture of amusement and disgust, slowly
overspread his rather refined face, and a snorting, reluctant chuckle
escaped him.
"Is that so?... 'Many's the true word spoken in jest'!" he retorted.
"Porteous--the young devil who came across with _that_ one, _is_ a
'parson's son,' as it happens, my boy.... His old man's the Dean of some
fat living or another in the South of England.... By George, though!...
I'm getting just about fed up with that stuff, night after night.... Tip
us a stave, Ben!... start in now and sing us something decent for a
change."
He got up suddenly from the table and, lifting his tankard high as if
for a toast, bawled "Order!" A slight lull followed, taking advantage of
which, he called out:
"Say, you fellows!... I propose we call on Sergeant Benton, here, for a
song!"
A vociferous assent greeted his suggestion immediately, and all eyes
were turned on Ellis, with encouraging shouts of: "You bet!... That's
the talk! Come, on, Sergeant! please!... Order, there!... Shut your
traps for a bit!" For, they all knew that when in the mood he _could_
sing.
Benton did not move for a minute, then: "Doggone you!" he remarked, with
a resigned sigh to Dudley, "_you've_ let me in for this!... An' I just
wanted to sit here quiet!"
He quaffed a long draught of beer and got up though presently and,
sauntering over to the piano which O'Hara promptly vacated for him,
seated himself. A comparative quiet ensued. Even "the Monk's" maudlin
ribaldry ceased, and that worthy becoming interested, he slewed around
on his perch so as to hear the better, unceremoniously shoving off his
faithful pup--"Kid"--in the movement, which sent that canine with a
hasty "flop" to the floor.
With the hard lines of his face momentarily softened with an expression
of genial bonhomie, the Sergeant toyed absently with the keys for a
space, thinking of something appropriate for that hilarious company;
then suddenly, a clear baritone voice of remarkable depth and richness,
rang out in the old familiar song of "Mandalay":
"Come you back to Mandalay,
Where the old Flotilla lay:
Can't you 'ear their paddles chunkin' from
Rangoon to Mandalay?
On the road to Mandalay,
Where the flyin'-fishes play,
An' the dawn comes up like thunder outer
China 'crost the Bay!"
The last verse but one begins, as you know, with the sort of irritable
abandon typical of a soldier's "grouse":
"Ship me somewheres east of Suez, where the best is like the
worst,
Where there aren't no Ten Commandments an' a man can raise a
thirst;
For the temple-bells are callin', an' it's there that I would
be--
By the old Moulmein Pagoda, lookin' lazy at the sea;"
He finished the rollicking old ballad amid thundering applause and loud
shouts of "'Core! 'Core!" "Give us 'In Cellar Cool'!" "Give us 'Father
O'Flynn'!" etc. But just then the clear, long-drawn-out, sweet notes of
a trumpet-call sounded outside on the square. The Orderly-room Sergeant
looked at his watch.
"Hello!... Didn't know it was so late!" he ejaculated. "Come on, there!
Turn out!... 'First Post's' just gone!"
And the Canteen gradually emptied as the men departed noisily to their
respective barrack-rooms.