Produced by Don Lainson and Andrew Sly
THE FOREIGNER
A TALE OF SASKATCHEWAN
Ralph Connor
PREFACE
In Western Canada there is to be seen to-day that most fascinating
of all human phenomena, the making of a nation. Out of breeds
diverse in traditions, in ideals, in speech, and in manner of life,
Saxon and Slav, Teuton, Celt and Gaul, one people is being made.
The blood strains of great races will mingle in the blood of a race
greater than the greatest of them all.
It would be our wisdom to grip these peoples to us with living hooks
of justice and charity till all lines of national cleavage disappear,
and in the Entity of our Canadian national life, and in the Unity of
our world-wide Empire, we fuse into a people whose strength will
endure the slow shock of time for the honour of our name, for the
good of mankind, and for the glory of Almighty God.
C.W.G. Winnipeg, Canada, 1909.
CONTENTS
I The City on the Plain
II Where East meets West
III The Marriage of Anka
IV The Unbidden Guest
V The Patriot's Heart
VI The Grip of British Law
VII Condemned
VIII The Price of Vengeance
IX Brother and Sister
X Jack French of the Night Hawk Ranch
XI The Edmonton Trail
XII The Making of a Man
XIII Brown
XIV The Break
XV The Maiden of the Brown Hair
XVI How Kalman found His Mine
XVII The Fight for the Mine
XVIII For Freedom and for Love
XIX My Foreigner
CHAPTER I
THE CITY ON THE PLAIN
Not far from the centre of the American Continent, midway between
the oceans east and west, midway between the Gulf and the Arctic Sea,
on the rim of a plain, snow swept in winter, flower decked in summer,
but, whether in winter or in summer, beautiful in its sunlit glory,
stands Winnipeg, the cosmopolitan capital of the last of the Anglo-Saxon
Empires,--Winnipeg, City of the Plain, which from the eyes of the world
cannot be hid. Miles away, secure in her sea-girt isle, is old London,
port of all seas; miles away, breasting the beat of the Atlantic,
sits New York, capital of the New World, and mart of the world,
Old and New; far away to the west lie the mighty cities of the Orient,
Peking and Hong Kong, Tokio and Yokohama; and fair across the highway
of the world's commerce sits Winnipeg, Empress of the Prairies.
Her Trans-Continental railways thrust themselves in every direction,
--south into the American Republic, east to the ports of the Atlantic,
west to the Pacific, and north to the Great Inland Sea.
To her gates and to her deep-soiled tributary prairies she draws from
all lands peoples of all tribes and tongues, smitten with two great
race passions, the lust for liberty, and the lust for land.
By hundreds and tens of hundreds they stream in and through this
hospitable city, Saxon and Celt and Slav, each eager on his own quest,
each paying his toll to the new land as he comes and goes, for good
or for ill, but whether more for good than for ill only God knows.
A hundred years ago, where now stands the thronging city, stood
the lonely trading-post of The Honourable, The Hudson's Bay Company.
To this post in their birch bark canoes came the half-breed trapper
and the Indian hunter, with their priceless bales of furs to be
bartered for blankets and beads, for pemmican and bacon, for powder
and ball, and for the thousand and one articles of commerce that
piled the store shelves from cellar to roof.
Fifty years ago, about the lonely post a little settlement had
gathered--a band of sturdy Scots. Those dour and doughty pioneers
of peoples had planted on the Red River their homes upon their
little "strip" farms--a rampart of civilization against the wide,
wild prairie, the home of the buffalo, and camp ground of the
hunters of the plain.
Twenty-five years ago, in the early eighties, a little city had
fairly dug its roots into the black soil, refusing to be swept away
by that cyclone of financial frenzy known over the Continent as the
"boom of '81," and holding on with abundant courage and invincible
hope, had gathered to itself what of strength it could, until by 1884
it had come to assume an appearance of enduring solidity. Hitherto
accessible from the world by the river and the railroad from the south,
in this year the city began to cast eager eyes eastward, and to listen
for the rumble of the first trans-continental train, which was to bind
the Provinces of Canada into a Dominion, and make Winnipeg into one of
the cities of the world. Trade by the river died, but meantime the
railway from the south kept pouring in a steady stream of immigration,
which distributed itself according to its character and in obedience
to the laws of affinity, the French Canadian finding a congenial home
across the Red River in old St. Boniface, while his English-speaking
fellow-citizen, careless of the limits of nationality, ranged whither
his fancy called him. With these, at first in small and then in larger
groups, from Central and South Eastern Europe, came people strange in
costume and in speech; and holding close by one another as if in terror
of the perils and the loneliness of the unknown land, they segregated
into colonies tight knit by ties of blood and common tongue.
Already, close to the railway tracks and in the more unfashionable
northern section of the little city, a huddling cluster of little
black shacks gave such a colony shelter. With a sprinkling of
Germans, Italians and Swiss, it was almost solidly Slav. Slavs of
all varieties from all provinces and speaking all dialects were
there to be found: Slavs from Little Russia and from Great Russia,
the alert Polak, the heavy Croatian, the haughty Magyar, and
occasionally the stalwart Dalmatian from the Adriatic, in speech
mostly Ruthenian, in religion orthodox Greek Catholic or Uniat
and Roman Catholic. By their non-discriminating Anglo-Saxon
fellow-citizens they are called Galicians, or by the unlearned,
with an echo of Paul's Epistle in their minds, "Galatians." There
they pack together in their little shacks of boards and tar-paper,
with pent roofs of old tobacco tins or of slabs or of that same
useful but unsightly tar-paper, crowding each other in close
irregular groups as if the whole wide prairie were not there
inviting them. From the number of their huts they seem a colony of
no great size, but the census taker, counting ten or twenty to a hut,
is surprised to find them run up into hundreds. During the summer
months they are found far away in the colonies of their kinsfolk,
here and there planted upon the prairie, or out in gangs where new
lines of railway are in construction, the joy of the contractor's
heart, glad to exchange their steady, uncomplaining toil for the
uncertain, spasmodic labour of their English-speaking rivals. But
winter finds them once more crowding back into the little black
shacks in the foreign quarter of the city, drawn thither by their
traditionary social instincts, or driven by economic necessities.
All they ask is bed space on the floor or, for a higher price, on
the home-made bunks that line the walls, and a woman to cook the
food they bring to her; or, failing such a happy arrangement, a
stove on which they may boil their varied stews of beans or barley,
beets or rice or cabbage, with such scraps of pork or beef from the
neck or flank as they can beg or buy at low price from the slaughter
houses, but ever with the inevitable seasoning of garlic, lacking
which no Galician dish is palatable. Fortunate indeed is the owner
of a shack, who, devoid of hygienic scruples and disdainful of city
sanitary laws, reaps a rich harvest from his fellow-countrymen,
who herd together under his pent roof. Here and there a house
surrendered by its former Anglo-Saxon owner to the "Polak" invasion,
falls into the hands of an enterprising foreigner, and becomes to
the happy possessor a veritable gold mine.
Such a house had come into the possession of Paulina Koval. Three
years ago, with two children she had come to the city, and to the
surprise of her neighbours who had travelled with her from Hungary,
had purchased this house, which the owner was only too glad to sell.
How the slow-witted Paulina had managed so clever a transaction no
one quite understood, but every one knew that in the deal Rosenblatt,
financial agent to the foreign colony, had lent his shrewd assistance.
Rosenblatt had known Paulina in the home land, and on her arrival in
the new country had hastened to proffer his good offices, arranging the
purchase of her house and guiding her, not only in financial matters,
but in things domestic as well. It was due to Rosenblatt that the
little cottage became the most populous dwelling in the colony.
It was his genius that had turned the cellar, with its mud floor,
into a dormitory capable of giving bed space to twenty or twenty-five
Galicians, and still left room for the tin stove on which to cook
their stews. Upon his advice, too, the partitions by which the cottage
had been divided into kitchen, parlour, and bed rooms, were with one
exception removed as unnecessary and interfering unduly with the most
economic use of valuable floor space. Upon the floor of the main room,
some sixteen feet by twelve, under Rosenblatt's manipulation,
twenty boarders regularly spread their blankets, and were it not
for the space demanded by the stove and the door, whose presence
he deeply regretted, this ingenious manipulator could have provided
for some fifteen additional beds. Beyond the partition, which as a
concession to Rosenblatt's finer sensibilities was allowed to remain,
was Paulina's boudoir, eight feet by twelve, where she and her two
children occupied a roomy bed in one corner. In the original plan
of the cottage four feet had been taken from this boudoir for
closet purposes, which closet now served as a store room for
Paulina's superfluous and altogether wonderful wardrobe.
After a few weeks' experiment, Rosenblatt, under pressure of an
exuberant hospitality, sought to persuade Paulina that, at the
sacrifice of some comfort and at the expense of a certain degree of
privacy, the unoccupied floor space of her boudoir might be placed
at the disposal of a selected number of her countrymen, who for the
additional comfort thus secured, this room being less exposed to the
biting wind from the door, would not object to pay a higher price.
Against this arrangement poor Paulina made feeble protest,
not so much on her own account as for the sake of the children.
"Children!" cried Rosenblatt. "What are they to you?
They are not your children."
"No, they are not my children, but they are my man's,
and I must keep them for him. He would not like men to
sleep in the same room with us."
"What can harm them here? I will come myself and be their protector,"
cried the chivalrous Rosenblatt. "And see, here is the very thing!
We will make for them a bed in this snug little closet. It is most
fortunate, and they will be quite comfortable."
Still in Paulina's slow-moving mind lingered some doubt as to the
propriety of the suggested arrangement. "But why should men come in
here? I do not need the money. My man will send money every month."
"Ah!" cried the alert and startled Rosenblatt, "every month! Ah!
very good! But this house, you will remember, is not all paid for,
and those English people are terrible with their laws. Oh, truly
terrible!" continued the solicitous agent. "They would turn you
and your children out into the snow. Ah, what a struggle I had
only last month with them!"
The mere memory of that experience sent a shudder of horror through
Rosenblatt's substantial frame, so that Paulina hastened to surrender,
and soon Rosenblatt with three of his patrons, selected for their more
gentle manners and for their ability to pay, were installed as night
lodgers in the inner room at the rate of five dollars per month. This
rate he considered as extremely reasonable, considering that those of
the outer room paid three dollars, while for the luxury of the cellar
accommodation two dollars was the rate.