Until this time Bill's mind had dwelt mainly upon the past, with a sick yearning for his mother, and for the barge, the only home he had known, the merry traffic down the Lower Reaches, the stir and throb of London. If he thought of the future, it was only with dread of being taken back, and hanged as a matter of course—yes, just as Uncle Joey had been turned off at Tyburn. Now a new impulse filled him. Was he such a fool as to be taken back there alive? "Yes, if they're smart enough to catch me once I gets ashore!"
He was tailing on the halliard. For the outrage upon Auld Jock, the ship's best chantey man, no man would start a stave. Yet in his mind was the memory of the Trawling chantey picked up long ago from the Barking fisherman. He began to hum the tune, aloud before he knew, and presently a Shetlander of the starboard watch took up the chorus, one after another caught the melody, and Bill roared out the bass, yelped the high grace notes:
"Now up jumps the Herring—the King of the sea,He jump to the tiller—shouts 'Hellum a lee.'
"Chorus, you fellers—
For it's windy old weather,Stormy bad weather,And when the wind blowWe must all pull together!"
IX
At Robinson Crusoe's Island, which is now called Juan Fernandez, theBeaverput in for water, and there her consort theNereidjoined company, having been out of sight for a month.
Of course Bill wanted to go ashore with the watering party, so the old man clapped him in irons lest he attempt an escape. "Losing your day's work," said Silas, who came to him at dinner time in the 'tween-decks, and brought food for them both.
Bill yawned. "Sleep is good," said he. "I didn't intend to run—at least, not here."
They sat on the deck with the food between them, to share the salt meat and biscuit.
"You hadn't oughter run," answered Silas. "Them Chilian loafers ashore what thinks they're soldiers ain't worth encouraging. Set 'em to hunting you—why, they'd get swelled head mistaking themselves for white men. You want to wait until we makes little old North America, where there's more room."
"You been on this west coast?" said Bill.
"You betcher—droguing hides along them Mexican ports, from San Diego all the way up north to San Francisco. Yes, and when I was whaling, I been to Roosian America. We watered at New Archangel!"
"Away north?"
"Sure, and in between California and the Roosian fur-trade forts is the British claims. That's from San Francisco up to 54° 40" north—all Hudson's Bay posts, wot we're heading for now. The British hain't got no rights to be there anyways, seeing it's U.S.A."
"What rights 'as you got to our forts?"
"Oh, as to that, the English can take their rotten forts away and bury 'em. It's the country belongs to us. We bought it from France. It's part of Louisiana."
"'Ow abart the moon?"
Silas grinned joyfully. "Waal," he drawled in his very slow speech, "it's this a-way. The President he come along to tell my mother as he'd like to owe her ten dollars, if she could fix it. I axed him about the moon, but I sort o' disremember exactly what he said. Lemme see. Why, yes.
"Mr. President, he says, says he, 'Waal, Silas, it ain't lo-cated, the moon ain't, yet,' says he, 'but when it is lo-cated, you kin bet yer life no foreigners will be up early enough in the mawning, but they'll find our stakes in fust.'"
Bill was profoundly impressed, and tried in vain to recollect any such conversation of his own with King William IV.
"Another time," said Silas thoughtfully, "when the President went buggy riding with my father, he telled him that when we're good and ready, we're going to run you British out of Oregon."
* * * * * * *
"—and Padre, Silas says——"
"Is that the dog-faced man?" asked Rain.
"More like a wolf," said Storm. "Him as is going to give me his gun, to make up for the way he sneaked."
"Give you his gun?" asked Rain, delighted.
"Yes; it's a good gun too, if I can get a flint for the lock. If it had a flint, of course he wouldn't give it me. Besides, there's no powder or ball."
"When will he give it?" asked Rain.
"When we gets to the mouth of your river."
"I'll pray to the Sun for a flint," said Rain.
"Padre"—the lad looked up at the fairy clergyman, who was frightfully busy working at his book—"Silas says that the Americans is going to run us English out of Oregon."
The padre abandoned his work in despair, swung round on his high stool, put up his spectacles, and looked over the top of the rims at these disturbing children who squatted very comfy on the corner, holding each other's hands. "Ah! that reminds me," he said. "Julia is engaged!"
"Oh!" Rain cried. "But, Padre, you know there is no marrying here."
"Did I say marrying?" asked the clergyman. "No, Julia took a fancy to Lion King-at-Arms, and is engaged, digesting him." He sighed. "She has such a temperature! Ah! yes, and by the way, young Storm, I have a letter which will interest you."
"Eh?" Storm jumped to his feet. "But of course there hain't no letters in Dreamland." He sat down again disappointed.
"Pause, my son. Think it out. The fairies know all about everything. Well, how would they know anything if they never got any news? When a letter is destroyed down there on Earth, of course it comes here by fairy post at once. This letter"—he grubbed about for some time in his desk—"Ah! here. It came I see in 1806, so it's been quite a long time waiting for you."
"Twenty-eight years! Nine years before I was born!"
"So matters are arranged. The little beforehand and the little behindhand are attributes of the fore-handed fairies. Now, this particular letter is in Russian; but there again, pause, and reflect. It is a thought, my son, and thoughts are things which flash from mind to mind. I am speaking Spanish, but you hear in English, and Rain understands in Blackfoot. You shall read this Russian letter in your own language."
Bill wanted the letter, but the padre would lecture, so it couldn't be helped.
"I see," he continued, "that it went down on board the Russian scowPeter Paul, when she foundered in a gale off Iterup in 1807. It is written by a man you are to meet in Oregon, a Lieutenant Tschirikov. His grandfather, you know, was the great Lieutenant Tschirikov, the Russian explorer who sailed with Vitus Bering in 1741. He made the first landfall when the Russians discovered North America from the west."
Storm groaned, for at this rate he would never get the letter.
"I'm frightened," said Rain. "Letters are supernatural, and fearfully powerful medicine. Hadn't Storm better pray to the Sun before he reads?"
"N-no." The padre thought this over very carefully. "Lieutenant Tschirikov is bald, quite bald, and very very fat, so he should be quite harmless. The truly dangerous magicians are never bald or fat like Tschirikov."
"Still, I think," said Rain most fearfully, "dear Storm, you'd better make a sacrifice to the Sun. Just hang up something."
Ever obedient to her, Storm jumped up, grabbed the padre's spectacles, ran out, and hung them on a tree as a sacrifice to the Sun. Then he came in again, snatched the letter, and read. It seemed to have no bearing upon his affairs, but still one never knows:
To His ExcellencyColonel The Barin Alexei Alexandrovitch,,Governor-General of Eastern Siberia,Irkutsk.St. Petr, Kadiak Island, Russian America,
July10th, 1806.
Venerable Brother,—
In the name of all the saints—vodka! Send barrels! I languish on salmon, and Eskimo, inhaling the latter, for so far I have been mercifully delivered from the necessity of eating any. They are suffocating.
I pray you salute the Immaculate Ruin, our Aunt, and kiss her on my behalf. Thus I shall have done my duty, but not suffered.
Oh for the delights of your Excellency's palace, and a clean shirt!
How I envy you the very least of those perquisites and assumptions of plunder which ever flow into your treasury, pickings worthy a minister of state. But at the least I am solvent, for so long as I can blow my own trumpet I shall never be destitute, having Her Excellency—Salute!—yourself—General Salute!—and the Immaculate Ruin—nine guns!—to borrow from. In default of roubles I repay, as you perceive, in compliments.
Baranov, you know, spent last summer in extending the Company's operations to a point a few thousands versts or so from here, and far to the eastward of Mt. St. Elias. Here's to St. Elias! I was with him—not Elijah, you stupid—in theSt. Paul, my present command, and he had all the natives that could be mustered, in some three hundred skin canoes. Most of them, by the way, were drowned in Icy Bay, but when Baranov makes an omelet he likes to hear the eggs splash. We founded a post in the country of the Sitka tribes, and called it New Arkangel. On our return westward in the autumn, we left behind some twenty-three men as garrison, but they have foolishly allowed themselves to be done to death. So we sail in a few days to massacre the Sitkas, the only amusement there is to look forward to at present.
Meanwhile I have put in for repairs here at St. Petr; and beyond some little diversion of which it is the purpose of this present writing to advise you, I have little to do except play cards with the priest, and listen to the oddest lot of legends that ever came out of a monastery. Yum! Yum!
I do not suppose that you care to hear about the conditions of the country and the fur trade, or I would regale you with an account of all the hunters drowned, stabbed, or starved since I last wrote. Nay, I will not weary you with commonplaces. It is enough that men such as ourselves of the first fashion are condemned to be bored all day with the affairs of the canaille, without letting them intrude upon our private correspondence. Verily our revered grandparent deserved to be exterminated and heavily fined for his idiocy in discovering such a country.
As a matter of fact, however, I am not writing to amuse either myself or you, but to tell you how I managed to fall out with Baranov. As the insolent old fool has written to Golovnin and others to get me sent home in disgrace. I want your Excellency to have his paws burned. How such a base-born, red-haired, shopkeeping, bald-headed, shriveled-up he-bear came to be Governor of Russian America I cannot imagine.
Well, early in June I arrived at Ounalashka, in the Aleutian Islands, with supplies from Petropavlovsk; found the Governor there, and began to unload. From the first I heard of little else but the charms of Olga—the Little Fur Seal—they called her—daughter of a big Aleut chief from Oumnack. I entertained the old gentleman on board the St. Paul, until he grew mellow with my particular vodka, now, alas! no more. Olga sat in a corner with her big dark eyes fixed on me, her red lips just a little parted, and her black hair streaming down on either side of her face: only a savage, of course, but one cannot expect court ladies from the entourage of Her Imperial Majesty. When I thought the chief was in a sufficiently amiable humor—you could have buttoned his grin behind his neck—I asked how many skins he required for his very plain daughter. Not that I wanted her. But still I felt some curiosity. It would not be good for his morals to encourage his avarice.
To which he replied that all my skins wouldn't buy her, because the great lord Baranov demanded her for wife. Now the Governor has more skins than I have hairs; but I have wisdom, and wisdom is better than many skins; so I told the chief that if he would give me Olga I would tell him all about everything. You know I picked up ventriloquism at the Naval College, so that when the chief derided me, voices were heard laughing at him from under his chair, out of the vodka bottles, in the beams overhead and all over the cabin. He said I was a great doctor, and knew everything; but how could he give me Olga when he had also promised her to Ivan, a young chief in the village? Moreover, she was in love with a fourth party. I told him that I was very wise, and that I loved Olga.
Now, to make a long story short, I disposed of the pretenders as follows: The fourth party I won over by giving him an old cocked hat and a broken sword, together with the degree of Sublime Exaltation in the Ancient and Hereditary Order of Mystical Gluttons. The initiation was a most imposing ceremony. I read the ritual from the ship's big medicine book, and in token of the ancient and hide-bound traditions of the Order, encased his head in plaster of Paris and painted his nose red. After marching thrice round the cabin on all fours we concluded the ceremony with an oath, whereby he is bound to present himself in person at Irkutsk, and there to deliver letters credential to His Excellency the Venerable and Supreme Grand Master of the Order, take him into his arms, rub noses in token of amity and a joyful heart, and to receive the appointment of Minister of Stolen Goods in the government of the province. He sails in the ship of my little friend Hans Schlitz, and I hereby commend him to your brotherly love.
Now for the third party, Ivan, the young Chief: I sent him to Baranov in the dead of the night to ask why he has red hair; but instead of having his mind enriched with the important revelations which were to have been uttered by the Governor on hearing this mystic password, my poor friend Ivan had his body decorated with quite other forms of enrichment, and was found next morning on top of the church belfry with one eye and three fingers missing and his nose pointing round the corner. Baranov is inclined, at times, to be a little playful.
The fourth party being under your Excellency's care, and the third suitor ignominiously rejected by the Little One as damaged goods, I had now to compensate her father for not getting Baranov's skins. Wherefore I proceeded to instill the most subtle wisdom into the head of my future father-in-law. I taught him a little sleight of hand, and some card tricks; showed him how to run a sword through his body by means of a tin tube in the shape of a half belt, invented for him a beautiful system of fortune telling, and gave him the ship's speaking trumpet with which to bellow at the people through his big medicine mask. I showed him the effects of phosphorus upon the face at night, and how even white people turn black when painted with nitrate of silver. But the most polite of his new accomplishments is the ventriloquism—a trick which he has raised to the dignity of a fine art. Suffice it to say that I qualified that savage to become such an intolerable nuisance that he is to-day the recognized terror of all Aliaska, and possesses more skins than even Baranov could have offered for his daughter.
But alas for all my virtue and my discretion! Just as I had won the Little Fur Seal, for whose sake Baranov piled up his skins in vain, the young Aleut Chief was undergoing repairs, and the fourth party proceeding to rub noses with your Excellency at Irkutsk, the old chief came to me, crouched down on the cabin floor, and began to wail.
I took him by the scruff, rattled his teeth, and ordered him to speak.
"She's gone," he moaned—"gone away in the night, and left her poor old father all alone!"
I hauled him on deck by the ear, kicked him overboard, and went to Baranov. Our sorrows had made us brethren, and we wept. We were sampling a small keg of brandy, to assuage our anguish, when in came Ivan, with his nose bandaged up and his tongue hanging out, to mourn with us.
In proof of our sympathy we gave him some of the brandy, and as we three sat together mingling our tears with our spirits, a rude little boy came in and laughed at us. Olga, he said, was his sister, and had whispered to him last night, before she went away thatany one who wanted Fur Seal would have to hunt! She said also that she was going to St. Petr on Kadiak Island, and bade him tell nobody of the fact, particularly Captain Tschirikov.
Baranov rose from his chair with a most absurd assumption of dignity, and said: "Captain Tschirikov, you will at once beach theSt. Paulfor repairs in the East Cove, and superintend the work in person. Ivan, you will report to me at nine o'clock this evening, and receive dispatches for Attoo Island. Boy, consider yourself entered on the books of the Company as my body servant, and be ready by to-morrow morning to go with me to Kadiak Island."
Dismissing Ivan and the boy, I told Baranov that I intended to beach my ship for repairs, not in the East Cove but at St. Petr, where there are better facilities. He at once ordered me under arrest. I replied that I was not accustomed to receive indignities at the hands of tradesmen, that as a naval officer I was responsible to no civilian, and only refrained from calling him out because he was not a gentleman. Leaving him speechless with rage, I boarded my vessel, slipped and buoyed my cable, and squared away for Kadiak.
A Russian does not sleep when he is out wife-hunting, and you have only to hold in remembrance the black eyes of my Little Fur Seal to realize that I was not many days in reaching her hiding place. I landed at St. Petr with my whole starboard watch, and proceeded to search the village. Just as one of my men entered a house, he called to me, but I reached the front door only in time to see something flutter out at the back. Giving chase, I had the Little Fur Seal safe in my arms within a hundred yards of the house. We have hunted bears together, O my brother, and faced them when they were defending their cubs; but a she-bear in the spring is a lamb compared to Olga. She scratched, kicked, bit, screamed; she tried to plunge a long knife into me, and when I took that from her, clutched my hair. Wherefore I do beseech thee, Alexei Pavlovitch, as thou dost honor the memory of our sire, to send for a wig to Petersburg—just a little wig, with a becoming queue, in the latest mode of thevielle noblesse, in size about the same as you wear on full-dress occasions. Have this consigned to the care of Hans Schlitz at Petropavlovsk.
When I got her down to the boat the Little One began to sulk; and except for some little scratching as we got her up over the ship's side, she sulked on consistently until supper time. I felt like a brute as, after a solitary meal in the cabin, I smoked my pipe before turning in. I was conscious all the time of the glare from her black eyes. Whenever I tried to make friends they flashed upon me like twin stars; while once in my bunk I had an uncomfortable presentiment that, presently finding me asleep, she would cut me off in the flower of my youth with a big butcher knife. But reflecting that it is much wiser to sleep than to lie awake imagining vain things, and greatly solaced by the memory of having seen Baranov's vessel beating her way up the harbor, I partly closed my eyes, and dozed a little.
As luck would have it, I was just sufficiently awake to note that the Little One, believing me to be asleep, was stirring. To give her confidence, I snored comfortably and, unsuspected by her, watched every movement. How pretty she looked as she stood in the faint glow of the candlelight, and then moved slowly towards me, almost imperceptibly and softly as a panther! Picture to yourself, Alexei, the gentle swaying of her limbs, the tangled mass of shadowy hair, the brilliant eyes, the full red lips! Outside I could hear Baranov's crew letting their anchor go, and taking in their canvas. I thought also, with a sense of pleasure, of Ivan stealing slowly along the coast in his canoe towards us. Then, brother, conceive my delight as I saw her creep past the locker upon which lay the knife without even stretching out her hand towards it. A moment later I felt that she was bending over me; her breath played upon my face, her lips drew closer and closer, until at last they rested upon my cheek, leaving there the imprint of the sweetest small round kiss that ever sent a thrill of joy through the heart of man.
The Little Fur Seal was mine!
Your affectionate brother,NICOLAI.
In the padre's little adobe house Storm finished reading, and at once the fairies, peeping round the edge of the door and the window, made grand pretense that they had not heard.
"Padre," asked Rain, "what's bald?"
The holy man lowered his head to show the shaven tonsure. "That," said he.
"Oh!" said Rain. "I never saw a bald before. We don't have any in the Blackfoot nation." Tears came to her eyes and made them glisten. "And fat," she said. "Poor Nicolai! Poor Little Fur Seal! Storm, when you meet him in the Oregon be kind to him and comfort him for the fat and bald. And give her my love too."
"If I remember," answered Storm.
* * * * * * *
And Bill awakened because the bos'n knelt beside him with a lantern, taking off the handcuffs. TheBeaverwas at sea.
I
What is a Christian? Is he one who professes the Faith? I have my doubts. The Holy Inquisition professed belief, and generously burned the bodies of the orthodox in order to save their souls.
Perhaps He accepts as Christian all who do the will of His Father by loving God and their neighbors. I dare hold that these are the Christians whom Christ believes in. Throughout a varied and misguided life I have found the sort of Christians who love God and their neighbors, both in the cities and the countryside; but they seemed most numerous in the fighting forces at war, the fishing vessels, the deep-sea shipping, the cow camps, the remote gold fields, and the forlorn outposts of trappers, rangers, scouts, explorers, pioneers. Such Christians did not always clean their teeth, or wash behind their ears, their conversation would have shocked their mothers and all angels; but then one doubts if the fisherman of Galilee had any table manners, and if Peter, James, and John called on a modern bishop, they would certainly be sent to the back door.
Is this too long a sermon? Skip, then!
Nowhere are men so jammed as in a deep-sea forecastle, or piled on top of one another for so long a time, so plagued by rats, bugs, damp, cold, and gloom, with such a suffering from lack of sleep, fresh water, decent food, pure air, and privacy. And nowhere do men learn a more whole-hearted charity towards others, and liberality, such a complete unselfishness, so grand a Christianity of mind. In foul weather everybody saves a shipmate's life, say, once a day, and nobody expects a word of thanks.
The fellow who does not matter one way or the other is called Hi! The chap who provides any sport, puts up a good fight, or makes friends worth having generally earns a nickname and as a rule will answer to it, cheerily or with his fists, according to his nature. Murderer Bill, as his shipmates called young Fright, took his nickname without resentment. So one may address the most frightful insults to a dog in such a tone of voice that he wags his tail delighted.
If anybody wanted to have trouble, Murderer Bill made haste to provide. He fought several battles, and had a reputation for pugnacity. Yet to anybody who treated him half decently he proved a loyal friend in thought, word, and deed, the least selfish man on board, recklessly generous. No doubt was ever thrown upon his courage, he had a natural bent for seamanship, and fully held his ground as able seaman. In the larboard watch his special chum, towards the end, was Silas, Auld Jock his instructor, and the rest were friends. There was no man on board more generally liked.
And when theBeavercame safe inside the breakers on the Columbia bar, the captain had Murderer Bill haled down from aloft by the bos'n, clapped in irons, and once again consigned to the 'tween-decks as a prisoner. The ship's company as a whole determined to get even with the captain.
Thus Rain's prayer to the Sun came to be answered. The mate lent a flint which fitted the lock of Silas's gun. A bullet mold was found in the bos'n's locker and plenty of lead in the ballast for a supply of bullets. When the ship's magazine was opened for the salute to Fort Vancouver, a bag of powder strayed. The Iroquois made the belt and pouches, Auld Jock gave a hunting knife, somebody stole a lens from the captain's telescope to serve as a burning glass for making fire. The Yorkshireman gave a wallet with flint, steel, and tinder. There was a purse filled by subscription. It was certain that, when Murderer Bill escaped to the woods, he would not go empty handed, but doubtful rather whether he might need a wagon to carry his equipment.
II
To have a luminous mind concerning Fort Vancouver it is better not to get the place mixed with Vancouver Island, or with the modern seaport of Vancouver upon the adjacent mainland. The old capital of British Oregon—a city stands there now—was on the northern bank of the Columbia where a natural park of pasturage and timber sloped upwards from the river. Upstream the valley was barred by lofty forests, and from north to south no less than seven white immense volcanoes appeared to float above a sea of mist.
The village on the river bank had three dozen log cabins, very neatly kept by Indian housewives, their men being Shetlanders and Orkneymen, French-Canadians and Métis, Kanakas and Iroquois. The offspring attended school, where Solomon Smith taught American, singing, deportment, and morality. Behind the village rose the stockade 20 feet high, quadrangular, and in extent 750 feet by 450. It was not really a fort, having neither bastions, galleries, guns, nor even loopholes, for indeed a wooden popgun would suffice to terrorize the Chinooks. Facing the main gate was the chief factor's house, a French-Canadian manor, its white veranda trellised for vines which yielded purple grapes. Between two flights of steps forming a horseshoe stood a 24-pounder gun, with a mortar on either side, and pyramids of shot, to frighten children away from the geranium beds. On either side of the great house extended the officers' mess, anteroom, library, a range of officers' quarters, and houses for the guests. Fronting these were the big warehouses, store, ration house, hospital, and shops for the artificers, the tailor, the turner, the cobbler, the smith who made fifty hatchets a day in his spare time, the bakers who supplied hard biscuits to the Company's ships, and the Indians who beat the furs each week to rid them of moth and dust. On the lawn which covered the main square stood the bell-house and the flag-staff. Outside the stockade was the stead, with a threshing floor worked by oxen, the orchard where all the trees had props to help them carry their load, and the farm of seven hundred acres. Beyond was pasturage where the sheep yielded twelve-pound fleeces, and the growing herd of cattle was kept sacred for the future prosperity of Oregon. Downstream a couple of miles an Hawaiian herder tended the pigs in the oak woods. Upstream was the sawmill which furnished cargoes of lumber to the Sandwich Islands. In all that husbandry the figs and lemons were the only failures; but Mr. Bruce, the gardener, had an exchange of seeds with the Duke of Devonshire's place over at Chiswick-on-Thames, and yielded to no man in strawberries or Juan Fernandez peaches. Outlying this capital of the fur trade was old Astoria, an American fort bought by the Company during the American-British War of 1812, but now in ruins. A white man lived there to tend the four-acre garden and report the arrival of ships. On Puget Sound was Fort Nisqually, and farther up the coast Forts Langley, McLoughlin, Simpson, and Stickeen, which last had been leased from the Russians. Up the Columbia Valley was Fort Walla Walla, from whence a trail went eastward a couple of thousand miles to the United States, then spreading steadily up the Missouri Valley. Northward of Walla Walla was Fort Okanagan, which had stockaded outposts on the Spokane River, Lake Pend d'Oreille and Flathead River, with others farther on in what is now Canadian territory. Fort Colville, near the present boundary, and on the main stream of the Columbia, was second only to the capital, and thence the annual brigade of cargo boats went by river to Hudson's Bay. Southward of Vancouver about two hundred miles there was an outpost, and beyond that, six hundred miles or so, was the little Mexican presidio of San Francisco.
In theory the country was held jointly by Great Britain and the United States, but in fact it was British Oregon. The Hudson's Bay voyageurs retired, who farmed in the Willamette, were hardly as yet a colony, nor did the Company project large settlements to disturb the Indians or the fur trade. The time was a golden age of progress, prosperity, sane government, and unbroken peace, the sole creation of one man, Chief Factor David McLoughlin, Father of Oregon.
This gentleman was Irish on the father's and French-Canadian on the mother's side, Canadian born, and held a degree in medicine from the Faculty of Paris. He stood six feet six inches, powerfully built, strikingly handsome, with long hair iron-gray. One would compare him, in stern probity, with Washington, in charm with Lincoln, but not by any means with lesser men than these. His enemies testify to his hospitality, his delight fulness as a host, his generosity. People who came out of the wilderness or from the sea were charmed with the officers' mess, with its willow-pattern crockery salved in 1825 from a wrecked Chinese junk, the English cut glass, the bright silver, the flowers, the gracious ease, the sparkling conversation. And after dinner, Dr. McLoughlin, who had one glass of wine when a ship came in, would ring the bell for Bruce the gardener, who presented him with the snuff box. The pinch of snuff was a solemnity, a signal which sent the officers to their work, and the guests for a ride, or in wet weather to the library.
The pioneer serpents in this Paradise were the Reverend Herbert Beaver, Church of England chaplain, and Mrs. Beaver, the first white woman in Oregon. Beaver had been an army chaplain in the West Indies, a fox-hunting vicar at home, always more horse-proud than church-proud. He was a little man of light complexion, a feminine voice, an oratorical manner, flippant and arrogant, who hunted every morning and baptized the heathen in drill time all the afternoon. He was appalled by the discovery that each of the twenty officers, the doctor included, had an Indian woman in quarters, a half-breed family, not married. It did not occur to him that the Indian marriage was sacred to the Indians, and that himself was the first priest with power to celebrate the Christian rite for the men. With one exception, they refused his services as an insult. Beaver would not associate with immoral women, or Mrs. Beaver with lewd, adulterous men. They said so. Indeed, the pair made themselves variously and acutely unpleasant, and that in the name of Christ.
The American missionaries who followed them developed deadly treachery against the doctor; the American pioneers, all pleasantly uncouth, wrested the country from its British owners, but the English Beavers were first to undermine the happiness of Oregon, and it was their advent which closed the golden age.
III
H.B.C. brigantineBeaver, all shiny with fresh paint and burnished brass, dipped her ensign to the fort, fired her salute of guns, dropped anchor abreast of the village, reported to the chief factor, and sent ashore all sorts of reading matter and other precious treasure. Then she proceeded to turn herself into a little paddle boat, the pioneer steamer of the Pacific Ocean. It was on the 14th of June, 1836, that she took the gentlemen of the fort on an excursion all round Wapato Island. After that came her maiden voyage under steam of 800 miles to Milbank Sound, and the first filling of her little bunkers at the Nanaimo coal seam. So she passes out of our story.
Meanwhile, at his first obeisance to the chief factor, Captain Home made report with much pomp and circumstance that he had a prisoner in irons awaiting commitment on the horrible charge of murdering his parents. The doctor advised him to see Mr. Douglas, Justice of the Peace.
Black Douglas, scarce less tall and imposing of presence than the doctor himself, received the little fuss box with an amiable grin, read over the newspaper cutting with some slight impatience, and remarked that Bill Fright seemed to have a jolly good case for criminal libel against theLondon Advertiser. The captain was disgusted, and presently consoled himself by telling Mr. Beaver all about it.
Meanwhile, the ship's company related to all comers that the prisoner was a pretty good fellow, with the makings of a sailorman, although the skipper "had a down on him."
The officers' mess agreed that Captain Home was a pompous ass, sitting on a mare's nest, and making a ridiculous fuss about some youngster falsely accused of felony.
At the mess the Reverend Herbert Beaver observed over his wine that he had already reported to the Aborigines Protection Society of London on the hideous and callous immorality of the present company, and if this parricide were not at once committed for trial he in fact would proceed—to take steps.
Doctor McLoughlin rang for Bruce, took a pinch of snuff, released the servants, then requested the Reverend Chaplain to resign from the mess, because it was intended only for the use of gentlemen.
The Reverend Beaver having flounced out of the room in a huff, and banged the door, the chief factor bowed to the delighted officers, who came about him as he stood to receive their congratulations. "Do you know, gentlemen," he said, "I agree with the chaplain. Yes. I regret to say that for once I find myself in agreement with Mr. Beaver.
"Now, James," he turned to Douglas, "please don't give Mr. Beaver ground for complaints against you to the Government of Lower Canada from which you hold Commission of the Peace."
"You mean sir, that I should try this rotten case?"
"I do, Jim, really. I have my reasons too. And Jim," he winked at the magistrate, "may I be prisoner's friend?"'
There was a roar of laughter.
"And mind you, Jim, no hole-and-corner business. All white men should be present, as witnesses to the fact that Mr. Beaver has no grounds for complaint either against you or against me."
"May we use this room, sir?"
And so was the trial arranged.
IV
"Prisoner. The London news-sheets of 29th October, 1835, our latest advices, report that a coroner's inquest was convened at a place called, yes—Margate, the day previous, upon the bodies of James Fright, a barge master, and Catherine his wife. The jury gave a verdict of deliberate and willful murder against the son of the deceased, by name Bill Fright. As a Justice of the Peace I'm obliged to rule that this newspaper report is bona fide evidence.
"What is your name?"
"Bill Fright."
"Call Mr. David Home."
David Home, having taken oath, protested that he was entitled to be called Captain.
"By courtesy," said the magistrate blandly, "which I shall render, when I have inspected your log book. You will please show the prisoner's name in your log."
"Prisoner is shown here," said Home, "under a purser's name, as Willie Muggins." The captain was mopping his forehead with a handkerchief. Certainly the mess room was hot and crowded.
"You assert that the prisoner signed on under a false name?"
The captain shuffled. "Oh, well, fact is——"
"Be careful, Mister David Home, be careful!"
Still the captain shuffled, and his ship's company, present at his request, excepting the Iroquois and the Negro, began to rejoice aloud.
"Am I to understand," thundered Black Douglas, "that you attempt to prejudice the prisoner's case by suggesting that he signed under a false name?"
"No, sir!"
"Then what the devil do you mean by appearing in a British Court of Justice with a false log book? I refuse to receive your evidence. You will leave my court. Get out!"
Nothing could restrain theBeaver'screw from rousing cheers as their captain was shown out, but Black Douglas ordered silence or he would clear the court.
The boatswain's evidence was accepted as to the fact of arrest.
"And now," the magistrate turned to the prisoner, "you are charged," he spoke with a grave gentleness, "with the murder of your parents. Do you plead guilty or not guilty?"
Bill knew that this man was a friend worth winning. "Not guilty!" he answered joyfully.
Black Douglas looked at the crowd. "I want you all to know," he said, "that I don't pretend to any training at all in law or in court procedure. I'm a trader. But I am a white man claiming British blood. Deep down in all our hearts there is one root principle of our common sense, fair play between man and man. We are here to play the game. A prisoner is a man restrained by the law because his conduct has been called in question, held until Justice can give him absolute fair play, and he stands free in presence of his fellows. He is an innocent man in trouble, in jeopardy."
Here the Reverend Beaver, seated in the front row of the spectators, was unrestrained in his impatience.
"Pish! Pshaw! Mawkish sentiment! Playing to the gallery! Disgraceful!"
The magistrate seemed to be pleased, and addressed the remainder of his remarks directly to the chaplain. As he drove home the attack, great was the joy of his brother officers.
"To slander a prisoner behind his back, to question, bully, or punish him, or in any way to treat him as a felon before he is proven guilty, is a beastly and contemptible act of cowardice. The prisoner before me has been slandered by the news-sheets behind his back prior to his trial. I cannot shoot the reptiles of the press, but I can and will defend the prisoner in the establishment of his own innocence. As magistrate I am allowed to ask him which way he pleads, in guilt appealing to the Crown for mercy, or in innocence demanding release as an act of justice. Pleading 'Not guilty,' he has demanded trial.
"Prisoner, Dr. David McLoughlin, Chief Factor, asks leave to appear on your behalf as prisoner's friend to see that you get fair play and benefit of doubt. Do you accept his help?"
There were tears in Bill's eyes and his voice was very gruff as he answered "Yes."
Press cuttings were then read by the clerk of the court and noted as documentary evidence, completing the case for the prosecution.
Mr. Dodd, mate of theBeaver, was sworn for the defense, and presently examined by the doctor.
"In whose watch, Mr. Dodd, did the prisoner serve?"
"In mine, sir; I chose him."
"Any regrets?"
"None, sir."
"What sort of character?"
"First-rate, sir; best helmsman we has, makings of an excellent seaman. Couldn't have done it, sir."
"Done what?"
"Done murder, sir."
"I think," observed the magistrate, "that this is opinion rather than evidence as to fact."
"Does the prisoner get on well with Captain Home?"
"No, sir."
"Why?"
"Rather not say. It's not my place to discuss my commanding officer."
"Excellent. By the way, Mr. Dodd, was the prisoner wearing a belt knife when he joined the ship?"
"He was, sir."
"May I request the court to have one or two of the newspaper reports read again with reference to the weapon?"
The clerk read two or three versions which described the murderer's blood-stained belt knife as found in the barge's cabin. The last version showed the weapon as clutched in the dead man's hand.
"That's right, sir," cried the prisoner, and when the doctor tried to silence him, so much the more he protested. "Why, I seen it!"
"Prisoner," said the magistrate, "you will be wise to leave your defense to your counsel."
"Bias! Bias!" The Reverend Herbert Beaver jumped up and shrieked in his shrill voice. "Bias! The court is shielding a felon!"
"Silence in court," said the magistrate. "Usher, if that man interrupts with one more word, remove him, using all necessary violence."
The prisoner had whirled round to stare at the chaplain. His face became deadly pale, his eyes were starting from his head, his teeth were clenched, lips parted. "You go to 'Ell," he snarled. "And that ain't far—for you!"
"I call you all to witness——" shrieked the reverend gentleman; but he got no further, for all necessary violence attended his departure.
The Reverend Jason and Daniel Lee, of the Methodist faith, American missionaries, some visiting officers of the company's outposts, one or two overland trappers, a couple of stray seamen, the gentlemen and servants of Fort Vancouver, and the ships' companies of theBeaver,Nereid, andUna, made in all perhaps the largest assemblage of white men which had so far met on the Pacific coast. The affair of Bill Fright was not of the smallest consequence that day compared with the great issue, the chaplain's grievance against the magistrate which would be laid before the Government of Lower Canada, and his complaints to the Governor and Company in London which might easily ruin the Father of Oregon. Now he would claim conspiracy between the doctor, the magistrate, and the prisoner! How much worse his grievance, if the prisoner were found not guilty, and released as an innocent man! The doctor and Black Douglas were exchanging glances, and both understood that the boy must be committed for trial.
The case went on, for Mr. Dodd was witness as to Silas discovering the charge against the prisoner, and how as chief officer he himself examined the supposed Willie Muggins, who proved perfectly frank, and manfully indignant at an outrageous slander. Again the seamen of theBeaverbroke out cheering, and had to be restrained. There was no doubt as to their sympathy.
Now Bill demanded that the Court should hear his story; and, rueful as they were lest he should ruin his case, neither the magistrate nor the doctor felt that it was wise to appear in the suppression of evidence. Great was their relief as the lad spoke, simply and to the point, clearing away all mystery, all doubt, until the crime was seen in its true proportions, a murder and suicide committed by his father, which left him motherless, friendless, and in jeopardy of the gallows.
The doctor scribbled a note, and handed it to Douglas.
"Dr. McLoughlin," the magistrate looked up from reading the note, "I quite understand. The clerk of the court will make record that the prisoner, having taken over his own case, the prisoner's friend withdraws from his defense."
Bill was horrified at that disaster just when he thought that he had won the game.
"Prisoner, it is your right as a British subject, to proceed to England, and there as an innocent man demand a reversal of the coroner's sentence, so that your innocence may be established before the world. You are therefore committed for trial."
"May I speak?" asked Bill.
"You may."
"Then"—he shook with anger—"I says as you sends the mouse to eat the cheese in the mousetrap—and calls that justice!"
The magistrate's grave face preserved an unsmiling severity, but his right eye closed, then opened. "Exactly so," said Douglas.
V
"And then," said Storm, "he wunk!"
"Buthow?" asked Rain.
"Like this," Storm closed one eye and opened it with much solemnity, first to the padre on his stool, and then to Rain in the corner.
"Of which," explained the padre, winking a few times to try what it felt like, "I will proceed to give the interpretation. For if," he assumed the pulpit manner, and winked devotionally, "there is an interpretation of dreams down there on Earth, there is likewise an interpretation of wakes up here in Dreamland."
"Quite so," said Rain. "I always felt that there should be, seeing that our actions down on the hunting ground are never taken seriously by any fairies here."
"The meaning of the magistrate's gesture," continued the padre, "is as follows. My good youth, if I declare you innocent and free, you are a seaman on board theBeaverand go to the northwest coast, to shovel coals and have yourself bullied by that Complete Swine Captain David Home.
"Or if I get the doctor here to take you on the permanent staff of the Fort, you come under the spiritual ministrations of the Holy Beaver, which stirs up mud with its tail instead of using it as a trowel and building dams to keep out Satan withal.
"And if I commit you to take your trial as a mouse in the Public Mousetrap, which is very bad for mice——"
"That's what he done!" cried Storm indignantly.
"But for the wunk," explained the padre, "yes; albeit, dear Brethren-in-the-singular, you will take to the woods, and presently get yourself devoured by a very fierce bear——"
"A real bear," said Rain very gravely.
"Because you don't know how to shoot."
"I do!" cried Storm.
"Not to hit, my son."
"I see." Storm showed dismay, and relapsed into gloomy attention.
"Wherefore we will fool the captain of the ship, the Holy Beaver, the Public Mousetrap, and the Real Bear by sending you away to be taught hunting, trapping, and woodcraft with my old friend Lieutenant Tschirikov——"
"The Fatbald!" said Rain. "I'm sure he must be very nice to make up for being so plain."
"So that's why!" cried Storm, delighted.
"—who lives, my son, at the river of the Kutenais, on the green meads at the head of Flatbow Lake."
"Why, that's my lake!" cried Rain.
"Of course," observed the padre: "for this cause was Storm brought from the Land of Barbarian-hereticks who drop their aitches, and carried to the mouth of your river, in order that he may come to your own lake, and meet you on the high snow field overlooking the Apse of Ice."
"The Sun Lodge where I am priestess!" cried Rain, exultant. "Now do I thank thee, Holy Spirit in the Sun, for all Thy mercies!"
When they had all three said their thanks, the padre observed that Julia was outside waiting to conduct them. They really must call on the invalid dragon.
"Who is that?" asked Storm.
"He is a poor dragon who devoured so many virgins that he has grown too stout, his cave is pinching him, and he can't get out."
"If I killed him," said Rain reflectively, "it would count for a good coup, like a scalp."
"Nay," the padre rebuked her ignorance, "a proper scalping lasts, but the more you chop a dragon the more he grows, and when you kill him he comes alive again."
"Anyway," said Rain, who had turned obstinate, "when Julia guides us, she is so busy showing herself off, that she always loses her way."
"Let's give her the slip," said Storm; so they got the padre out, by stretching him a little, through the back window, and went to see the dragon.
It took Rain and Storm some time before they mislaid the clergyman, and forgot all about the dragon, as they set forward upon that great adventure. At first they crossed part of a city, set in the midst of a park with very stately, formal gardens. They wanted to have a nearer view of the palace which rose beyond. It was made of silvery morning mist carved into colonnades, big shiny towers, and, far up in the sky, a dome all iridescent like the soap bubbles which have gliding colors. Rather frightened, daring one another to come on, expecting to be turned back at any moment, they crept into the vestibule. It had a sheen of pearl, and went away on either side into cool green distances. It was like the soul of the sea. Beyond it they found a courtyard with a pool reflecting its high walls, which were of opal, changing as one watched with color which rolled like sea waves towards the open doors upon the farther side. Within those doors was a big ante-chamber, where the light was all golden. Then there was a forest of columns, dusky and enormous, where footsteps echoed so that one went on tiptoe, until one looked through into the vast throne room. That seemed to be hewn out of the heart of a diamond, and in the midst of its flashing splendors there sat enthroned and all alone the King of the High Fairies. So dazzling was the light which came from him that the intruders went down on their knees and covered their faces.
"My thought has called you here," said the King, softly as though he whispered. "Do not fear, my children. Come to the step here at my feet, and rest while I speak to you."
Now, the story which was told by the King of the High Fairies is no invention, but real; not mine at all, but copied word for word out of a splendid book.[1]
[1]A Subaltern in Spirit Land, by J. S. M. Ward, B.A., F.R.Econ.S., F.R.S.S. (London: Rider & Son.)
Long ago I was one of the fairy folk, such as those you have just left, and so were we all. I dwelt in a castle, and did deeds of glamour, and hoped that a mortal would one day proclaim them to the world. But one day I fell into a strange trance, and dreamed of Earth, and of the sufferings of mortals, and their follies, and I saw how foolish were their griefs, and how easy it would be to relieve them.
And when I awoke, I pondered over these things, and it grew upon me that the life I lived was aimless and empty, since it was but glamour, and there was neither real sorrow nor sin, but only make-believe. For evil was only potential, but there it was real. Here the triumph of the good knight was always assured, but there it was uncertain.
Be it understood that the High Fairies are like ourselves, real people, but belong to a separate Order of Spirits, who have never been in mortal bodies to learn the discipline of pain, of sin and sorrow. Many of their adventures which happened in Fairyland are well known to all of us, in theAnnals of the Round Table,The Arabian Nights, and some of the so-called fairy tales. The writers of such books went in their dreams to Fairyland, invented earth-names for the High Fairies they encountered there, and brought back great annals of adventure. Others of the High Fairies hope that some day a writer will come and give them earth-names, so that they and their adventures may be known by mortals. Now to resume the story told by the Fairy King.
Then I set out towards the confines of Fairyland, and turned my back on the pleasant vales. I journeyed through the dark wood, and came at last to the cave where the gnomes dwell. These would have bidden me stay, but I heeded them not, and at length I came out into the astral plane, of which you know. But lower and lower I went, seeking sin and suffering, just as you menfolk flee from them, and on the astral plane I worked for a while, but as I knew not earth-life, I found my efforts of little avail.
So at length I reached the earth plane, and wandered unseen among the sons of men till the sorrow of the world ate into my soul and grief for its woe overwhelmed me.
Yet, try as I would, I found I could do little to help mankind, for I was not of their nature. Till one dread day I stood on a hill near a city men call Jerusalem, and I gazed in the faces of three who were crucified. Then He in the center saw me, though the rest saw me not, and He spoke these words:
"O spirit of air, who knowest not the love of men, draw near."
And I drew near, and said, "I have sought suffering and grief that I might be able to aid menfolk. Thou, who seemest to be the King of Pain, bring pain to me."
And He smiled. "Thou askest a hard thing. Yet shall it be given unto thee. Wrench forth the nails which fasten My hands and feet and set Me free."
Then I arose and strove to grasp the nails, but couldn't, for they were material and I immaterial. And as I strove, my helplessness filled me with a new sensation, and it was grief. For, strive as I might, I could do nothing to help that gentle sufferer.
And the grief grew to an intensity of pain which is indescribable.
Then again He spoke. "It avails not—thou canst not help Me; and yet in the striving thy request has been granted. Go, and My love for men go with thee!"
Then the vague desire to help men grew into a burning passion, and I went from the spot and strove to help them. And now it seemed that I was changed in spirit, for I comprehended their griefs and how to help them.
So I comforted the heavy-hearted in the dark watches of the night. And I guided the erring ones into the safe road. I strove with the wayward and warned the foolish, until my work was accomplished. I have learned to suffer, yet have I never learned to die, and I think that none can become perfect till that experience has been endured.
All the time that he was telling the story the King's right hand had rested upon Storm's head, or gently stroked the wavy, sun-gold hair. "Why do you tremble so?" he asked—"you that are learning to die, that shalt become what I may never be, perfected in endurance by the rite of death. Why are you frightened?"
"I'm not frightened, sir. We gets a training on our earth so as not to show funk when we're scared."
We all know how dream-scenes change, how dream-people are transformed. By the King's magic the throne room had vanished. They seemed to be in a paved courtyard, and in front of him there rose a Roman colonnade. It was the Prætorium in old Jerusalem. "Why, that's the orderly room," said Storm; "it's lucky I'm off duty."
His clothes had changed themselves into Roman infantry uniform, parade kit, a burnished and plumed steel helmet, a shining steel cuirass, a kilt, strapped sandals.
That was the King's magic, which awakened slumbering memories, making far-past events to live as though they happened within the hour.
"You are not frightened," said the King; "what then, lad, makes you as the leaves when they are dry, when their voice is harsh, ere the death wind carries them away?"
Storm glanced sideways angrily at Rain. "It was all along of her," he answered. "When she blamed it on to me that she was to have a baby. Wanted me to make an honest woman of her, as if I'd stoop to the likes—a native—a Jew drab.
"She slobbered," cried Storm, "all over my breast-plate and shoulder straps, which I'd been burnishing for inspection. I never noticed that anything was wrong until the morning parade. And there was my steel all rusted. The old centurion told our ten-man, Vivianus his name was, that if he couldn't keep his men clean he'd better chuck his stripes. The ten-man was proper sick at that and when we got back to the barrack room he took it out of me, yes, good and plenty. He had to furnish the day's execution detail, and I was senior soldier of the section. Said he couldn't trust a dirty man in charge. He'd have to take the detail himself. Besides he insulted me, and we Northmen take no lip from them little black Italians. Tell you, what with that, and the woman, and the disgrace—by Mithras! I was just about crazy by the time he marched us round here to this Prætorium Courtyard."
Storm was a Roman soldier once again, back in the garrison of old Jerusalem.
"Got to chuck a brace, breast to breastplate, shoulder blades touching or you galls your windpipe on the cuirass. Got to watch your step and mind your dressing so as not to make a holy show of our legion in front of them natives. Got to keep your mouth from yelling, yes, and leave your dirk sheathed when ye can't see nothin' but blood—blood, blood, and the ten-man a-prompting in yer ear—'left, left, left, right, left, right incline, come up on the left there! Mark time, by the left—forward, march straight through the swineherd! Shoulder through them! Damn them! Frontform. Halt. Stand at ease—stand easy.' Blood! Blood! By the crucified Mithras, I'll have his blood for insulting me.
"The natives was having their usual riot. It was something about one of them street-preachers they wanted hanged; and, after a shindy, the Governor let 'em have Him, provided of course He was turned off decently by the troops, not torn to pieces by the mob.
"Of course the Governor's guard escorted the prisoner to the Prætorium Courtyard for the usual flogging, and then, as He seemed to be something special—claimed to be King of the Jews—the boys on guard called the battalion out of barracks for a bit of fun with Him. They sent out for a dead branch from one of them acacias, with ivory-white thorns a couple of inches long. They plaited that into a crown. They got an old short crimson cloak—general officers' batmen gets such things given them. And a long cane did for scepter, though it broke. They stripped the preacher, and rigged Him out, had a great game with the King of the Jews, bashing the crown of thorns on His head with that scepter. His face was running with blood.
"Of course our execution squad, of an N.C.O. and three privates, just stood easy until the day's prisoners was handed over to us for our job of hanging. If the boys behaved like kids, they was off duty, and it weren't no business of mine. Besides, the prisoner was only a Jew, and Jews is offal.
"Yet He was sort of getting hold of me, like drink takes hold of a man before he knows. That's why I acted rough when we took over, cause us Roman soldiers can't afford to be sloppy, especially with natives. His eyes—crucified Mithras, His eyes! I couldn't look Him in the face while I was going to murder Vivianus. That's the first man I ever forgave.
"The quartermaster used to issue crosses which we had to turn into store after the day's executions. They was heavy, and this preacher, after the way the boys had handled Him—well, He was none too strong. The other two was just the usual thieves and they come fresh from the cells, but He broke down under the load. We caught a friend of His'n, an old fellow from Cyrene, in North Africa, who had a couple of sons, Alexander and Rufus, in the horse trade. Them Cyreneans is horse copers to a man. Well, this old Simon what we caught, we made to carry the preacher's cross all the way to the West Gate, with the natives mobbing Him, cursing and throwing muck. When they're roused, them Jews is beastly. So we come to the Skull Hill just due west of the city, in full view from every roof. There's holes hewn in the rock there, a row of 'em for crosses. Them two thieves was lashed to their crosses, which is the usual way, but He was a sort of special case, so I had the job of driving the spikes with a sledge through His hands and feet. He lay there on the cross, watching me, and when I went sick all of a sudden He tells me to do my duty. He was smiling at me. My God! We lifted them three crosses, dropped the butts into the mortise holes, and hammered in the wedges—same as quoins, to keep 'em steady.
"We'd took off all their clothes, which was our perquisite, and our ten-man makes fair division. Except His tunic, no use if it was cut, being woven, same as a jersey in one piece. We used knucklebones, which is much the same as throwing dice. I won, and in the evening I give it——"
He glanced at Rain.
"To her."
The King bent low. "Go on," he said.
"The day was heavy, and along in the afternoon come a big storm, dark, with sheets of rain, and blinding flashes.
* * * * * * *
"Hello!" said Storm, "that's Snow Fell! This is Broad Firth. We're in Iceland. This is another life. Oh, what's the name of the farm?"
"Under-the-lava," said Rain, "the stead of Slaying Stir. And I'm the veiled woman from Swede-realm. Don't you remember Slaying Stir has murdered my dear brothers Halli and Leikner? Their ghosts have brought me hither to murder Slaying Stir. In my dream they said I must come to Iceland and avenge their deaths. So I did. I came with the two poor ghosts to Iceland to the house of Slaying Stir. And when I tried to stab him, my heart was turned to water. My man here, Storm, was guesting at Stir's house. Storm loved me."
The King laid his hand on the lad's arm.
"That I did," said Storm.
"What were you, then?" asked the King.
"A slave. I, Harald Christian, Earl of Man, captured in battle, sold to be a thrall. My master, I loved my master, young Leif Ericson. And we came guesting to the house of Slaying Stir, where we met my woman. That was in Iceland, but our home was Greenland, the new Colony."
"So," Rain continued, "my man and I loved and were wedded secretly. But Leif captured me. Then he took his thrall, my poor man, Storm, and lashed him to a post which stood in the tideway. 'One prayer to Thor,' said Leif, 'and you go free. One prayer to Thor,' said Leif, 'and you get your woman.'"
"'One prayer to Christ,' said Storm, 'and you save your soul!' Then the tide closed over Storm's mouth."
"So," asked the King of the Fairies, "you gave your life for the Christ you had slain?"
"No such luck," answered Storm gloomily. "Leif got me back to life, made me a freeman, gave me my woman. Christ had him. Afterwards I was with him, steersman of theFlying Dragon, when we found a new world."
There came a sudden vision of smoking seas, of lashing spray, a reeling, staggering ship, with one great lugsail lifting her as she drove, thirty-two oarsmen straining at their labor, Storm in a leather jerkin at the thwart-ship tiller, and beside him a youth gigantic in chain mail who pointed with drawn sword, conning the passage between drowned sand banks and terrific combers into the entry of a land-locked bay.
"A new-found world," said the King. "New-found America."
But Storm answered concerning the Viking hero, Leif the Fortunate.
"He called it Christ-realm. Yes. That was afterwards, when we'd crossed the Western Ocean, made Norway, and put in at Nidaros, the new capital. There was Leif baptized, with the Norse King standing godfather. He offered Christ-Realm to Olaf Tryggveson, the Christian King of Norway."
The King of the Fairies said then:
"There seems to be a purpose running from life to life. So in the voyage of a ship the days pass, and the nights pass, but from day to day the purpose of her master continues always towards one end, one seaport. Mortals, your lives are days. Tell me of the next incarnation."
"That time," said Storm, "I never found my woman, so it don't count."
"Tell me, though. Perhaps the purpose runs."
"I was Gaston le Brut, de Joinville's body servant, and him crusading with Louis, King of France. Them wars is a muddle of battles, mud, and hunger, the pest, and slavery among the Paynim at Babylon the Less. The King and de Joinville got ransomed before they could raise the money to buy out us troops from the Soldan. It's all a muddle of bad management, but yes—I see—the ridge! the dragging my little master by the hand and he squealing 'Non! non! non!' but I made him see that which St. Louis didn't, the view of the Holy City through the heat mist faint in the distance, and the Hill of Skulls where I'd helped crucify my God! Oh, Christ Almighty!"
"The purpose runs, Rain," said the King of the Fairies. "Follow the quest. What was your next life?"
"When next we met," Rain answered, "I was what Storm calls Red Indian. I was Powhatan's daughter then. It was in those days that the English came first into our country—the land they call Virginia—yes, and the English called me Pocahontas. It wasn't my real name though. I wedded my man, and he was Master John Rolfe—a little widower. Twice he was Roman soldier, once he was thrall in Iceland, and then it seems crusader, and again John Rolfe the planter, and now what he calls bargee; but he is always Storm and I am always Rain, and we shall always love."
"And have you loved none other?" asked the King.
"Nay, but there was one I worshiped as though he were a god. Captain Johnsmith."
"Which," cried Storm—"I'd know that face among millions—was Leif Ericson, the man who found a new world."
"And in his next life," said the King of the Fairies, "founded the United States, eh?"
"Then that," cried Rain, "which we drop in the last life, we take up again in the next."
"The ship," answered the Fairy King, "carries on her journey during the night, and at the next daybreak is that much nearer to her haven. Now tell me of this present day's journey, which you mortals call a lifetime, down on earth."
Storm answered. "Me and her is man and wife."
"Whom God hath joined," said the King, "no man can possibly sunder."
"Till death us part?" Rain whispered.
The Fairy King leaned forward on his throne, his hands clasped. "Death," he reflected, "Time, and Space are only three impostors. They are shadows, glamour, not realities like Faith or Hope or Love. A Spirit told me once that a man and a woman who love, whom death cannot set asunder, may in the end be parts of one, one Angel.
"How I do envy you two children! And have you been parted in this life you are living now down on the Earth?"
"We've never met," said Rain. "Storm is an English sailor; I live with my mother Thunder Feather, the sacred woman of the Blackfoot nation. We have our tipi in a lonely valley of the mountains, and pilgrims come to Thunder Feather to be healed when they are sick in soul or body. But she is dying, so I take up her work. And always I call my man, so that he has come on a voyage of six moons, to the mouth of my river. Still I call him to come up my river, then over the mountains to the sacred lodge. He brings the Christ Faith with him for our Indian peoples."
"I'm a prisoner," said Storm, "at Fort Vancouver, and they want to send me to England because they say I murdered mother. I didn't, so I don't want to be hanged for that. I did murder Christ. I want to die for that."
"A Roman legionary," said the King, "a brave man among the Vikings, a Crusader, a pioneer of the United States, a seaman of England—how I envy you the least of these achievements! And you, my daughter, loving and heroic, how poor my fate compared with yours! But I see ahead of you the greatest of all adventures, the most splendid, the most tremendous, the most triumphant. May God bless you both!"
"Good-by, sir." Storm kissed his hand. "My body is calling me, dragging me back to earth—to prison at Vancouver."
"And," said Rain, "my mother calls me home. Farewell, Great Chief."
VI
Bill Fright awakened in his cell at Fort Vancouver.
The dawn was breaking, and pale blue smoke went up from the chimneys as Fort Vancouver awakened, yawning, for the new day's work. Quite naked, wrapping a blanket about him, stately as a Roman Emperor, Black Douglas came to his door to snuff the breath of the spring. Then stepping gingerly, barefooted across the crisp and dewy lawn and the gravel road beyond, he made his way out of the fort and across the village, until he stood upon the riverbank, where he dropped his blanket and bath towel. It looked very cold.
Mist lay on the shining water and the dim gray ships, whose masts went up so sharply etched against the deeps of sky. Beyond them lofty firs and spreading cedars faint as dreams arose from isles invisible, rapt, waiting. Far up the valley, soaring above the forest and the cloud belts, snow fields of icy blue were edged with flame against the throbbing splendors of the sunrise. Close at hand some little fussy birds were singing orisons, but the great prayer of the forest and the volcanoes was a Silence, faithful, calm, triumphant, rendered to Love and Power which reigns for ever, the Spirit in the Sun, their Lord, their God.