What did the parson do?
He fell upon his knees, but not to her, and uttered a Latin prayer, short but fervid.
“All the kingdoms of the world and the glory of them,” he murmured, “would not be to me so much as this!” Then he rose.
“Child,” he said, “you know not what you do.” And, opening the door, he went away into the snowy forest. But the girl’s weeping voice called after him, “Herman, Herman.” He turned; she had sunk upon the threshold. He came back and lifted her for a moment in his arms.
“Be comforted, Rosamond,” he said, tenderly. “It is but a fancy; you will soon forget me. You do not really love me,—such a one as I,” he continued, bringing forward, poor heart! his own greatest sorrow with unpitying hand. “But thank you, dear, for the gentle fancy.” He stood a moment, silent; then touched her dark hair with his quivering lips and disappeared.
Sunday morning the sun rose unclouded, the snow lay deep on the ground, the first ice covered the bay; winter had come. At ten o’clock the customary service began in the Chapel of St. John and St. James, and the little congregation shivered, and whispered that it must really try to raise money enough for a stove. The parson did not feel the cold, although he looked almost bloodless in his white surplice. The Englishwoman was there, repentant,—the sick child had not rallied under the new ministration; Mrs. Malone was there, from sheer good-nature; and several of the villagers and two or three miners had strolled in because they had nothing else to do, Brother Saul having returned to the mine. Rose Ray was not there. She was no saint, so she stayed at home and wept like a sinner.
The congregation, which had sat silent through the service, fell entirely asleep during the sermon on the “General Councils.” Suddenly, in the midst of a sentence, there came a noise that stopped the parson and woke the sleepers. Two or three miners rushed into the chapel and spoke to the few men present. “Come out,” they cried,—“come out to the mine. The thief ’s caught at last! and who do you think it is? Saul, Brother Saul himself, the hypocrite! They tracked him to his den, and there they found the barrels and sacks and kegs, but the stuff he ’s made away with, most of it. He took it all, every crumb, and us a starving!”
“We ’ve run in to tell the town,” said another. “We ’ve got him fast, and we ’re going to make a sample of him. Come out and see the fun.”
“Yes,” echoed a third, who lifted a ruffianly face from his short, squat figure, “and we ’ll take our own time, too. He ’s made us suffer, and now he shall suffer a bit, if I know myself.”
The women shuddered as, with an ominous growl, all the men went out together.
“I misdoubt they ’ll hang him,” said Mrs. Malone, shaking her head as she looked after them.
“Or worse,” said the miner’s wife.
Then the two departed, and the parson was left alone. Did he cut off the service? No. Deliberately he finished every word of the sermon, sang a hymn, and spoke the final prayer; then, after putting everything in order, he too left the little sanctuary; but he did not go homeward, he took the road to the mine.
“Don’t-ee go, sir, don’t!” pleaded the Englishwoman, standing in her doorway as he passed. “You won’t do no good, sir.”
“Maybe not,” answered the parson, gently, “but at least I must try.”
He entered the forest; the air was still and cold, the snow crackled under his feet, and the pine-trees stretched away in long white aisles. He looked like a pygmy as he hastened on among the forest giants, his step more languid than usual from sternest vigil and fasting.
“Thou proud, evil body, I have conquered thee!” he had said in the cold dawning. And he had; at least, the body answered not again.
The mine was several miles away, and to lighten the journey the little man sang a hymn, his voice sounding through the forest in singular melody. It was an ancient hymn that he sang, written long ago by some cowled monk, and it told in quaint language of the joys of “Paradise! O Paradise!” He did not feel the cold as he sang of the pearly gates.
In the late afternoon his halting feet approached the mine; as he drew near the clearing he heard a sound of many voices shouting together, followed by a single cry, and a momentary silence more fearful than the clamor. The tormentors were at work. The parson ran forward, and, passing the log-huts which lay between, came out upon the scene. A circle of men stood there around a stake. Fastened by a long rope, crouched the wretched prisoner, his face turned to the color of dough, his coarse features drawn apart like an animal in terror, and his hoarse voice never ceasing its piteous cry, “Have mercy, good gentlemen! Dear gentlemen, have mercy!”
At a little distance a fire of logs was burning, and from the brands scattered around it was evident that the man had served as a target for the fiery missiles; in addition he bore the marks of blows, and his clothes were torn and covered with mud as though he had been dragged roughly over the ground. The lurid light of the fire cast a glow over the faces of the miners; behind rose the Iron Mountain, dark in shadow; and on each side stretched out the ranks of the white-pine trees, like ghosts assembled as silent witnesses against the cruelty of man. The parson rushed forward, broke through the circle, and threw his arms around the prisoner at the stake, protecting him with his slender body.
“If ye kill him, ye must kill me also,” he cried, in a ringing voice.
On the border, the greatest crime is robbery. A thief is worse than a murderer; a life does not count so much as life’s supplies. It was not for the murderer that the Lynch law was made, but for the thief. For months these Algonquin miners had suffered loss; their goods, their provisions, their clothes, and their precious whiskey had been stolen, day after day, and all search had proved vain; exasperated, several times actually suffering from want, they had heaped up a great store of fury for the thief,—fury increased tenfold when, caught at last, he proved to be no other than Brother Saul, the one man whom they had trusted, the one man whom they had clothed and fed before themselves, the one man from whom they had expected better things. An honest, bloodthirsty wolf in his own skin was an animal they respected; indeed, they were themselves little better. But a wolf in sheep’s clothing was utterly abhorrent to their peculiar sense of honor. So they gathered around their prey, and esteemed it rightfully theirs; whiskey had sharpened their enjoyment.
To this savage band, enter the little parson. “What! are ye men?” he cried. “Shame, shame, ye murderers!”
The miners stared at the small figure that defied them, and for the moment their anger gave way before a rough sense of the ludicrous.
“Hear the little man,” they cried. “Hurrah, Peter! Go ahead!”
But they soon wearied of his appeal and began to answer back.
“What are clothes or provisions to a life?” said the minister.
“Life ain’t worth much without ’em, Parson,” replied a miner. “He took all we had, and we ’ve gone cold and hungry ’long of him, and he knowed it. And all the time we was a giving him of the best, and a believing his praying and his preaching.”
“If he is guilty, let him be tried by the legal authorities.”
“We ’re our own legal ’thorities, Parson.”
“The country will call you to account.”
“The country won’t do nothing of the kind. Much the country cares for us poor miners, frozen up here in the woods! Stand back, Parson. Why should you bother about Saul? You always hated him.”
“Never! never!” answered the parson, earnestly.
“You did too, and he knowed it. ’T was because he was dirty, and could n’t mince his words as you do.”
The parson turned to the crouching figure at his side. “Friend,” he said, “if this is true,—and the heart is darkly deceitful and hides from man his own worst sins,—I humbly ask your forgiveness.”
“O come! None of your gammon,” said another miner, impatiently. �
�Saul did n’t care whether you liked him or not, for he knowed you was only a coward.”
“ ’Fraid of a dog! ’Fraid of a dog!” shouted half a dozen voices; and a frozen twig struck the parson’s cheek, and drew blood.
“Why, he ’s got blood!” said one. “I never thought he had any.”
“Come, Parson,” said a friendly miner, advancing from the circle, “we don’t want to hurt you, but you might as well understand that we ’re the masters here.”
“And if ye are the masters, then be just. Give the criminal to me; I will myself take him to the nearest judge, the nearest jail, and deliver him up.”
“He ’ll be more likely to deliver you up, I reckon, Parson.”
“Well, then, send a committee of your own men with me—”
“We ’ve got other things to do besides taking long journeys over the ice to ’commodate thieves, Parson. Leave the man to us.”
“And to torture? Men, men, ye would not treat a beast so!”
“A beast don’t steal our food and whiskey,” sang out a miner.
“Stand back! stand back!” shouted several voices. “You ’re too little to fight, Parson.”
“But not too little to die,” answered the minister, throwing up his arms towards the sky.
For an instant his words held the men in check; they looked at each other, then at him.
“Think of yourselves,” continued the minister. “Are ye without fault? If ye murder this man, ye are worse than he is.”
But here the minister went astray in his appeal, and ran against the views of the border.
“Worse! Worse than a sneaking thief! Worse than a praying hypocrite who robs the very men that feed him! Look here, we won’t stand that! Sheer off, or take the consequences.” And a burning brand struck the parson’s coat, and fell on the head of the crouching figure at his side, setting fire to its hair. Instantly the parson extinguished the light flame, and drew the burly form closer within his arms, so that the two stood as one. “Not one, but both of us,” he cried.
A new voice spoke next, the voice of the oldest miner, the most hardened reprobate there. “Let go that rascal, Parson. He ’s the fellow that lamed you last spring. He set the trap himself; I seen him a doing it.”
Involuntarily, for a moment, Herman Peters drew back; the trap set at the chapel door, the deliberate, cruel intention, the painful injury, and its life-long result, brought the angry color to his pale face. The memory was full of the old bitterness.
But Saul, feeling himself deserted, dragged his miserable body forward, and clasped the parson’s knees. With desperate hands he clung, and he was not repulsed. Without a word the parson drew him closer, and again faced the crowd.
“Why, the man ’s a downright fool!” said the old miner. “That Saul lamed him for life, and all for nothing, and still he stands by him. The man ’s mad!”
“I am not mad,” answered the parson, and his voice rung out clear and sweet. “But I am a minister of the great God who has said to men, ‘Thou shalt do no murder.’ O men! O brothers! look back into your own lives. Have ye no crimes, no sins to be forgiven? Can ye expect mercy when ye give none? Let this poor creature go, and it shall be counted unto you for goodness. Ye, too, must some time die; and when the hour comes, as it often comes, in lives like yours, with sudden horror, ye will have this good deed to remember. For charity—which is mercy—shall cover a multitude of sins.”
He ceased, and there was a momentary pause. Then a stern voice answered, “Facts won’t alter, Parson. The man is a thief, and must be punished. Your talk may do for women-folks, not for us.”
“Women-folks!” repeated the ruffian-faced man who had made the women shudder at the chapel. “He ’s a sly fox, this parson! He did n’t go out to meet Rosie Ray at the Grotter yesterday, O no!”
“Liar!” shouted a man, who had been standing in the shadow on the outskirts of the crowd, taking, so far, no part in the scene. He forced himself to the front; it was Steven Long, his face dark with passion.
“No liar at all, Steve,” answered the first. “I seen ’em there with my own eyes; they had things to eat and everything. Just ask the parson.”
“Yes, ask the parson,” echoed the others; and with the shifting humor of the border, they stopped to laugh over the idea. “Ask the parson.”
Steven Long stepped forward and confronted the little minister. His strong hands were clinched, his blood was on fire with jealousy. The bull-dog followed his master, and smelled around the parson’s gaiters,—the same poor old shoes, his only pair, now wet with melted snow. The parson glanced down apprehensively.
“ ’Fraid of a dog! ’Fraid of a dog!” shouted the miners, again laughing uproariously. The fun was better than they had anticipated.
“Is it true?” demanded Steven Long, in a hoarse voice. “Did you meet that girl at the Grotter yesterday?”
“I did meet Rosamond Ray at the Grotto yesterday,” answered the parson; “but—”
He never finished the sentence. A fragment of iron ore struck him on the temple. He fell, and died, his small body lying across the thief, whom he still protected, even in death.
The murder was not avenged; Steven Long was left to go his own way. But as the thief was also allowed to depart unmolested, the principles of border justice were held to have been amply satisfied.
The miners attended the funeral in a body, and even deputed one of their number to read the Episcopal burial service over the rough pine coffin, since there was no one else to do it. They brought out the chapel prayer-books, found the places, and followed as well as they could; for “he thought a deal of them books. Don’t you remember how he was always carrying ’em backward and forward, poor little chap!”
The Chapel of St. John and St. James was closed for the season. In the summer a new missionary arrived; he was not ritualistic, and before the year was out he married Rosamond Ray.
Jeannette
* * *
BEFORE the war for the Union, in the times of the old army, there had been peace throughout the country for thirteen years. Regiments existed in their officers, but the ranks were thin,—the more so the better, since the United States possessed few forts and seemed in chronic embarrassment over her military children, owing to the flying foot-ball of public opinion, now “standing army pro,” now “standing army con,” with more or less allusion to the much-enduring Cæsar and his legions, the ever-present ghost of the political arena.
In those days the few forts were full and much state was kept up; the officers were all graduates of West Point, and their wives graduates of the first families. They prided themselves upon their antecedents; and if there was any aristocracy in the country, it was in the circles of army life.
Those were pleasant days,—pleasant for the old soldiers who were resting after Mexico,—pleasant for young soldiers destined to die on the plains of Gettysburg or the cloudy heights of Lookout Mountain. There was an esprit de corps in the little band, a dignity of bearing, and a ceremonious state, lost in the great struggle which came afterward. That great struggle now lies ten years back; yet, to-day, when the silver-haired veterans meet, they pass it over as a thing of the present, and go back to the times of the “old army.”
Up in the northern straits, between blue Lake Huron, with its clear air, and gray Lake Michigan, with its silver fogs, lies the bold island of Mackinac. Clustered along the beach, which runs around its half-moon harbor, are the houses of the old French village, nestling at the foot of the cliff rising behind, crowned with the little white fort, the stars and stripes floating above it against the deep blue sky. Beyond, on all sides, the forest stretches away, cliffs finishing it abruptly, save one slope at the far end of the island, three miles distant, where the British landed in 1812. That is the whole of Mackinac.
The island has a strange sufficiency of its own; it satisfies; all who have lived there fe
el it. The island has a wild beauty of its own; it fascinates; all who have lived there love it. Among its aromatic cedars, along the aisles of its pine-trees, in the gay company of its maples, there is companionship. On its bald northern cliffs, bathed in sunshine and swept by the pure breeze, there is exhilaration. Many there are, bearing the burden and heat of the day, who look back to the island with the tears that rise but do not fall, the sudden longing despondency that comes occasionally to all, when the tired heart cries out, “O, to escape, to flee away, far, far away, and be at rest!”
In 1856 Fort Mackinac held a major, a captain, three lieutenants, a chaplain, and a surgeon, besides those subordinate officers who wear stripes on their sleeves, and whose rank and duties are mysteries to the uninitiated. The force for this array of commanders was small, less than a company; but what it lacked in quantity it made up in quality, owning to the continual drilling it received.
The days were long at Fort Mackinac; happy thought! drill the men. So when the major had finished, the captain began, and each lieutenant was watching his chance. Much state was kept up also. Whenever the major appeared, “Commanding officer; guard, present arms,” was called down the line of men on duty, and the guard hastened to obey, the major acknowledging the salute with stiff precision. By day and by night sentinels paced the walls. True, the walls were crumbling, and the whole force was constantly engaged in propping them up, but none the less did the sentinels pace with dignity. What was it to the captain if, while he sternly inspected the muskets in the block-house, the lieutenant, with a detail of men, was hard at work strengthening its underpinning? None the less did he inspect. The sally-port, mended but imposing; the flag-staff with its fair-weather and storm flags; the frowning iron grating; the sidling white causeway, constantly falling down and as constantly repaired, which led up to the main entrance; the well-preserved old cannon,—all showed a strict military rule. When the men were not drilling they were propping up the fort, and when they were not propping up the fort they were drilling. In the early days, the days of the first American commanders, military roads had been made through the forest,—roads even now smooth and solid, although trees of a second growth meet overhead. But that was when the fort was young and stood firmly on its legs. In 1856 there was no time for road-making, for when military duty was over there was always more or less mending to keep the whole fortification from sliding down hill into the lake.
Constance Fenimore Woolson Page 3