THE PILOT'S LAST PORT
In the old times a funeral was regarded in the Swan Creek country as a
kind of solemn festivity. In those days, for the most part, men died in
their boots and were planted with much honor and loyal libation. There
was often neither shroud nor coffin, and in the Far West many a poor
fellow lies as he fell, wrapped in his own or his comrade's blanket.
It was the manager of the X L Company's ranch that introduced crape.
The occasion was the funeral of one of the ranch cowboys, killed by his
bronco, but when the pall-bearers and mourners appeared with bands and
streamers of crape, this was voted by the majority as “too gay.” That
circumstance alone was sufficient to render that funeral famous, but it
was remembered, too, as having shocked the proprieties in another and
more serious manner. No one would be so narrow-minded as to object to
the custom of the return procession falling into a series of horse-races
of the wildest description, and ending up at Latour's in a general
riot. But to race with the corpse was considered bad form. The
“corpse-driver,” as he was called, could hardly be blamed on this
occasion. His acknowledged place was at the head of the procession, and
it was a point of honor that that place should be retained. The fault
clearly lay with the driver of the X L ranch sleigh, containing the
mourners (an innovation, by the way), who felt aggrieved that Hi Kendal,
driving the Ashley team with the pall-bearers (another innovation),
should be given the place of honor next the corpse. The X L driver
wanted to know what, in the name of all that was black and blue, the
Ashley Ranch had to do with the funeral? Whose was that corpse, anyway?
Didn't it belong to the X L ranch? Hi, on the other hand, contended that
the corpse was in charge of the pall-bearers. “It was their duty to see
it right to the grave, and if they were not on hand, how was it goin' to
get there? They didn't expect it would git up and get there by itself,
did they? Hi didn't want no blanked mourners foolin' round that corp
till it was properly planted; after that they might git in their
work.” But the X L driver could not accept this view, and at the first
opportunity slipped past Hi and his pall-bearers and took the place next
the sleigh that carried the coffin. It is possible that Hi might have
borne with this affront and loss of position with even mind, but the
jeering remarks of the mourners as they slid past triumphantly could not
be endured, and the next moment the three teams were abreast in a race
as for dear life. The corpse-driver, having the advantage of the beaten
track, soon left the other two behind running neck and neck for second
place, which was captured finally by Hi and maintained to the grave
side, in spite of many attempts on the part of the X L's. The whole
proceeding, however, was considered quite improper, and at Latour's,
that night, after full and bibulous discussion, it was agreed that the
corpse-driver fairly distributed the blame. “For his part,” he said, “he
knew he hadn't ought to make no corp git any such move on, but he wasn't
goin' to see that there corp take second place at his own funeral.
Not if he could help it. And as for the others, he thought that the
pall-bearers had a blanked sight more to do with the plantin' than them
giddy mourners.”
But when they gathered at the Meredith ranch to carry out The Pilot
to his grave it was felt that the Foothill Country was called to a new
experience. They were all there. The men from the Porcupine and from
beyond the Fort, the Police with the Inspector in command, all the
farmers for twenty miles around, and of course all the ranchers and
cowboys of the Swan Creek country. There was no effort at repression.
There was no need, for in the cowboys, for the first time in their
experience, there was no heart for fun. And as they rode up and hitched
their horses to the fence, or drove their sleighs into the yard and
took off the bells, there was no loud-voiced salutation, no guying nor
chaffing, but with silent nod they took their places in the crowd about
the door or passed into the kitchen.
The men from the Porcupine could not quite understand the gloomy
silence. It was something unprecedented in a country where men laughed
all care to scorn and saluted death with a nod. But they were quick to
read signs, and with characteristic courtesy they fell in with the mood
they could not understand. There is no man living so quick to feel your
mood, and so ready to adapt himself to it, as is the true Westerner.
This was the day of the cowboy's grief. To the rest of the community
The Pilot was preacher; to them he was comrade and friend. They had been
slow to admit him to their confidence, but steadily he had won his place
with them, till within the last few months they had come to count him as
of themselves. He had ridden the range with them; he had slept in their
shacks and cooked his meals on their tin stoves; and, besides, he was
Bill's chum. That alone was enough to give him a right to all they
owned. He was theirs, and they were only beginning to take full pride in
him when he passed out from them, leaving an emptiness in their life new
and unexplained. No man in that country had ever shown concern for them,
nor had it occurred to them that any man could, till The Pilot came.
It took them long to believe that the interest he showed in them was
genuine and not simply professional. Then, too, from a preacher they
had expected chiefly pity, warning, rebuke. The Pilot astonished them
by giving them respect, admiration, and open-hearted affection. It was
months before they could get over their suspicion that he was humbugging
them. When once they did, they gave him back without knowing it all the
trust and love of their big, generous hearts. He had made this world new
to some of them, and to all had given glimpses of the next. It was no
wonder that they stood in dumb groups about the house where the man, who
had done all this for them and had been all this to them lay dead.
There was no demonstration of grief. The Duke was in command, and his
quiet, firm voice, giving directions, helped all to self-control. The
women who were gathered in the middle room were weeping quietly. Bill
was nowhere to be seen, but near the inner door sat Gwen in her chair,
with Lady Charlotte beside her, holding her hand. Her face, worn with
long suffering, was pale, but serene as the morning sky, and with not a
trace of tears. As my eye caught hers, she beckoned me to her.
“Where's Bill?” she said. “Bring him in.”
I found him at the back of the house.
“Aren't you coming in, Bill?” I said.
“No; I guess there's plenty without me,” he said, in his slow way.
“You'd better come in; the service is going to begin,” I urged.
“Don't seem as if I cared for to hear anythin' much. I ain't much used
to preachin', anyway,” said Bill, with careful indifference, but he
added to himself, “except his, of course.”
“Come in, Bill,” I urged. “It will look queer, you know,” but Bill
replied:
“I guess I'll not bother,” adding, after a pause: “You see, there's them
wimmin turnin' on the waterworks, and like as not they'd swamp me sure.”
“That's so,” said Hi, who was standing near, in silent sympathy with his
friend's grief.
I reported to Gwen, who answered in her old imperious way, “Tell him I
want him.” I took Bill the message.
“Why didn't you say so before?” he said, and, starting up, he passed
into the house and took up his position behind Gwen's chair. Opposite,
and leaning against the door, stood The Duke, with a look of quiet
earnestness on his handsome face. At his side stood the Hon.
Fred Ashley, and behind him the Old Timer, looking bewildered and
woe-stricken. The Pilot had filled a large place in the old man's life.
The rest of the men stood about the room and filled the kitchen beyond,
all quiet, solemn, sad.
In Gwen's room, the one farthest in, lay The Pilot, stately and
beautiful under the magic touch of death. And as I stood and looked down
upon the quiet face I saw why Gwen shed no tear, but carried a look of
serene triumph. She had read the face aright. The lines of weariness
that had been growing so painfully clear the last few months were
smoothed out, the look of care was gone, and in place of weariness and
care, was the proud smile of victory and peace. He had met his foe and
was surprised to find his terror gone.
The service was beautiful in its simplicity. The minister, The Pilot's
chief, had come out from town to take charge. He was rather a little
man, but sturdy and well set. His face was burnt and seared with the
suns and frosts he had braved for years. Still in the prime of his
manhood, his hair and beard were grizzled and his face deep-lined, for
the toils and cares of a pioneer missionary's life are neither few nor
light. But out of his kindly blue eye looked the heart of a hero, and
as he spoke to us we felt the prophet's touch and caught a gleam of the
prophet's fire.
“I have fought the fight,” he read. The ring in his voice lifted up all
our heads, and, as he pictured to us the life of that battered hero who
had written these words, I saw Bill's eyes begin to gleam and his lank
figure straighten out its lazy angles. Then he turned the leaves quickly
and read again, “Let not your heart be troubled . . . in my father's
house are many mansions.” His voice took a lower, sweeter tone; he
looked over our heads, and for a few moments spoke of the eternal hope.
Then he came back to us, and, looking round into the faces turned so
eagerly to him, talked to us of The Pilot--how at the first he had sent
him to us with fear and trembling--he was so young--but how he had come
to trust in him and to rejoice in his work, and to hope much from his
life. Now it was all over; but he felt sure his young friend had not
given his life in vain. He paused as he looked from one to the other,
till his eyes rested on Gwen's face. I was startled, as I believe he
was, too, at the smile that parted her lips, so evidently saying: “Yes,
but how much better I know than you.”
“Yes,” he went on, after a pause, answering her smile, “you all know
better than I that his work among you will not pass away with his
removal, but endure while you live,” and the smile on Gwen's face grew
brighter. “And now you must not grudge him his reward and his rest . . .
and his home.” And Bill, nodding his head slowly, said under his breath,
“That's so.”
Then they sang that hymn of the dawning glory of Immanuel's land,--Lady
Charlotte playing the organ and The Duke leading with clear, steady
voice verse after verse. When they came to the last verse the minister
made a sign and, while they waited, he read the words:
“I've wrestled on towards heaven
'Gainst storm, and wind, and tide.”
And so on to that last victorious cry,--
“I hail the glory dawning
In Immanuel's Land.”
For a moment it looked as if the singing could not go on, for tears
were on the minister's face and the women were beginning to sob, but The
Duke's clear, quiet voice caught up the song and steadied them all to
the end.
After the prayer they all went in and looked at The Pilot's face and
passed out, leaving behind only those that knew him best. The Duke and
the Hon. Fred stood looking down upon the quiet face.
“The country has lost a good man, Duke,” said the Hon. Fred. The Duke
bowed silently. Then Lady Charlotte came and gazed a moment.
“Dear Pilot,” she whispered, her tears falling fast. “Dear, dear Pilot!
Thank God for you! You have done much for me.” Then she stooped and
kissed him on his cold lips and on his forehead.
Then Gwen seemed to suddenly waken as from a dream. She turned and,
looking up in a frightened way, said to Bill hurriedly:
“I want to see him again. Carry me!”
And Bill gathered her up in his arms and took her in. As they looked
down upon the dead face with its look of proud peace and touched with
the stateliness of death, Gwen's fear passed away. But when The Duke
made to cover the face, Gwen drew a sharp breath and, clinging to Bill,
said, with a sudden gasp:
“Oh, Bill, I can't bear it alone. I'm afraid alone.”
She was thinking of the long, weary days of pain before her that she
must face now without The Pilot's touch and smile and voice.
“Me, too,” said Bill, thinking of the days before him. He could have
said nothing better. Gwen looked in his face a moment, then said:
“We'll help each other,” and Bill, swallowing hard, could only nod his
head in reply. Once more they looked upon The Pilot, leaning down and
lingering over him, and then Gwen said quietly:
“Take me away, Bill,” and Bill carried her into the outer room. Turning
back I caught a look on The Duke's face so full of grief that I could
not help showing my amazement. He noticed and said:
“The best man I ever knew, Connor. He has done something for me too.
. . . I'd give the world to die like that.”
Then he covered the face.
We sat Gwen's window, Bill, with Gwen in his arms, and I watching.
Down the sloping, snow-covered hill wound the procession of sleighs and
horsemen, without sound of voice or jingle of bell till, one by one,
they passed out of our sight and dipped down into the canyon. But we
knew every step of the winding trail and followed them in fancy through
that fairy scene of mystic wonderland. We knew how the great elms and
the poplars and the birches clinging to the snowy sides interlaced their
bare boughs into a network of bewildering complexity, and how the cedars
and balsams and spruces stood in the bottom, their dark boughs weighted
down with heavy white mantles of snow, and how every stump and fallen
log and rotting stick was made a thing of beauty by the snow that had
fallen so gently on them in that quiet spot. And we could see the rocks
of the canyon sides gleam out black from under overhanging snow-banks,
and we could hear the song of the Swan in its many tones, now under
an icy sheet, cooing comfortably, and then bursting out into sunlit
laughter and leaping into a foaming pool, to glide away smoothly
murmuring its delight to the white banks that curved to kiss the dark
water as it fled. And where the flowers had been, the violets and the
wind-flowers and the clematis and the columbine and all the ferns and
flowering shrubs, there lay the snow. Everywhere the snow, pure, white,
and myriad-gemmed, but every flake a flower's shroud.
Out where the canyon opened to the sunny, sloping prairie, there they
would lay The Pilot to sleep, within touch of the canyon he loved, with
all its sleeping things. And there he lies to this time. But Spring has
come many times to the canyon since that winter day, and has called to
the sleeping flowers, summoning them forth in merry troops, and ever
more and more till the canyon ripples with them. And lives are like
flowers. In dying they abide not alone, but sow themselves and bloom
again with each returning spring, and ever more and more.
For often during the following years, as here and there I came upon one
of those that companied with us in those Foothill days, I would catch a
glimpse in word and deed and look of him we called, first in jest, but
afterwards with true and tender feeling we were not ashamed to own, our
Sky Pilot.