Chapter VII: The Bondman

_The Bondman_ is a lurid picture of conflicting passions. Love, of an intense sadness, is set against hate and mischance. The strength of the story and the powerfulness of its narration lay hold of the reader’s imagination with a shudder, like a grim masterpiece of Rembrandt. Here is an extract from the opening book—Rachel, the Governor’s daughter, has left her home under the curse of her father, to marry a peasant Icelander, a good-for-nothing. Supported by his mother, they live on the brink of starvation. At last the husband, in shame, complains that if he had sixty crowns he would buy a fishing-boat; and Rachel sells her beautiful hair to procure the money, handing it over to him to make the purchase.

The old woman sat by the hearth and smoked. Rachel waited with
fear at her heart, but the hours went by and still Stephen did
not appear. The old woman dozed before the fire and snored. At
length, when the night had worn on towards midnight, an unsteady
step came to the door, and Stephen reeled into the house drunk.
The old woman awoke and laughed.

Rachel grew faint and sank to a seat. Stephen dropped to his
knees on the ground before her, and in a maudlin cry went on to
tell of how he had thought to make one hundred crowns of her
sixty by a wager, how he had lost fifty, and then in a fit of
despair had spent the other ten.

“Then all is gone—all,” cried Rachel. And thereupon the old woman
shuffled to her feet and said bitterly, “And a good thing too. I
know you—trust me for seeing through your sly ways, my lady. You
expected to take my son from me with the price of your ginger
hair, you ugly bald-pate.”

Rachel’s head grew light, and with the cry of a baited creature
she turned upon the old mother in a torrent of hot words. “You
low, mean, selfish soul,” she cried, “I despise you more than the
dirt under my feet.”

Worse than this she said, and the old woman called on Stephen
to hearken to her, for that was the wife he had brought home to
revile his mother.

The old witch shed some crocodile tears, and Stephen lunged in
between the women and with the back of his hand struck his wife
across the face.

At that blow Rachel was silent for a moment, and then she turned
upon her husband. “And so you have struck me—me—me,” she cried.
“Have you forgotten the death of Patriksen?”

The blow of her words was harder than the blow of her husband’s
hand. The man reeled before it, turned white, gasped for breath,
then caught up his cap and fled out into the night.

Stephen never comes back, and the son born to Rachel is christened Jason and is the “Bondman” of the tale. He is brought up by his mother in one of the meanest huts in the fishing quarter of the Icelandic capital, and supported by her drudgery. After nineteen years of flickering belief in her husband’s return, she comes by the knowledge that he is indeed living, but with another wife and another son, in the Island of Man. Broken-hearted and worn-out with hard living, Rachel sinks to her death, and, with her cold hand in his, Jason swears the oath that forms the motive of the book.

“My father has killed my mother.”

“No, no, don’t say that,” said the priest.

“Yes, yes,” said the lad more loudly; “not in a day, or an hour,
or a moment, but in twenty long years.”

“Hush, hush, my son,” the old priest murmured.

But Jason did not hear him. “Now listen,” he cried, “and hear my
vow.” And still he held the cold hand in his, and still the ashy
face rested on them.

“I will hunt the world over until I find that man, and when I
have found him I will slay him.”

“What are you saying?” cried the priest.

But Jason went on with an awful solemnity. “If he should die, and
we should never meet, I will hunt the world over until I find his
son, and when I have found him, I will kill him for his father’s
sake.”

“Silence, silence,” cried the priest.

“So help me, God!” said Jason.

Stephen Orry, on leaving his wife, has left Iceland as seaman in an English ship, and deserted from it on touching the Isle of Man. There he finds a companion in “the slattern and drab of the island,” and though vaguely ashamed of her, marries her. Michael, “little Sunlocks,” is the offspring of this unhappy union, a union becoming more degrading and more horrible to Stephen with every year of the child’s life. The father’s tortured brain, after trying every other means within his knowledge, resolves to kill his son rather than leave him to grow up under the influence of such a mother, and with that purpose he takes the child out to sea in his little boat. This passage is one of most beautiful that Hall Caine has yet written.

Little Sunlocks had never been out in the boat before and
everything was a wonder and delight to him.

“You said you would take me on the water some day. Didn’t you,
father?”

“Yes, little Sunlocks, yes.”

It was evening, and the sun was sinking behind the land, very
large and red in its setting.

“Do the sun fall down eve’y day, father?”

“It sets, little Sunlocks, it sets.”

“What is sets?”

“Dies.”

“Oh!”

The waters lay asleep under the soft red glow, and over them the
sea-fowl were sailing.

“Why are the white birds sc’eaming?”

“Maybe they’re calling their young, little Sunlocks.”

It was late spring, and on the headland the sheep were bleating.

“Look at the baby one—away, away up yonder. What’s it doing there
by itself on the ’ock, and c’ying, and c’ying, and c’ying?”

“Maybe it’s lost, little Sunlocks.”

“Then why doesn’t somebody go and tell its father?”

And the innocent face was full of trouble.

The sun went down, the twilight deepened, the air grew chill, the
water black, and Stephen was still pulling round the head.

“Father, where does the night go when we are asleep?”

“To the other world, little Sunlocks.”

“Oh, I know—heaven.”

Stephen stripped off his guernsey and wrapped it about the child.
His eyes shone brightly, his mouth was parched, but he did not
flinch. All thoughts, save one thought, had faded from his view.

* * * * *

But no, he could not look into the child’s eyes and do it. The
little one would sleep soon, and then it would be easier done. So
he took him in his arms and wrapped him in a piece of sailcloth.

“Shut your eyes and sleep, little Sunlocks.”

“I’m not s’eepy, I’m not.”

Yet soon the little lids fell, opened again and fell once more,
and then suddenly the child started up.

“But I haven’t said my p’ayers.”

“Say them now, little Sunlocks.”

Then lisping the simple words of the old Icelandic prayer, the
child’s voice, drowsy and slow, floated away over the silent
water:—

“‘S’eeping or waking, verily we
To God alone belong;
As darkness walks, and shadows flee,
We sing our even-song.’”

“There’s another verse, little Sunlocks—another verse.”

“‘O Father, we are Thy children all,
Thy little children, so weak and small.
Let angels keep
Guard of our s’eep,
And till we wake our spi’its take,
Eternal God, for Ch’ist His sake.’”

He finds it impossible to murder the innocent little one, and returns home to find his wife dead.

Then he decides to give the child away, never doubting but that the sunshine of his broken life would be an acceptable present to anyone. The Deputy-Governor, a man of great benevolence and generosity, is his choice; and the Governor accepts the trust, thereby estranging his wife and his own six sons. Adam Fairbrother, the Deputy-Governor, has a daughter of Michael’s age, and until little Greeba goes away to be brought up in the household of the Duke of Athol, the two children live and play together. Michael grows up to be his foster-father’s right hand, and the jealousy of the six sons and their mother cause a rupture in the family, the mother and sons taking the gift of all Adam’s private property and going away to live on it. At the age of eighteen, Greeba returns from London, and at the same time Stephen Orry reappears. He has gathered together two hundred pounds, and with it he asks that Michael shall go to Iceland, there to search out Rachel and her child and succour them from the poverty-stricken life in which Stephen had left them, so long before. Michael refuses the money, but accepts the charge, and takes ship for Iceland on the very day that Jason, in pursuance of his vow, reaches the Isle of Man.

Jason lands on the island, only to rescue his father from drowning and watch over him as he dies. He takes up life with Adam Fairbrother’s sons, and for four years grows in love for Greeba and her father. Then the office of Deputy-Governor is taken from Adam; and turning for home to his wife, in the house that he had given her, is refused admission. He remembers Michael Sunlocks, and determines to go to him in Iceland, leaving Greeba to live with her mother, and the love of none but Jason. The mother dies and the sons treat Greeba very hardly, so that she accepts the love of Jason. Then comes a letter from Michael which fans into flame the embers of her love. He writes to her, tells her of his position, and asks her to come out to him to be his wife. In a scene which shows the height of Jason’s nobility, Greeba takes back her love.

“It is no fault of yours, but now I know I do not love you.”

He turned his face away from her, and when he spoke again his
voice broke in his throat.

“You could never think how fast and close my love will grow. Let
us wait,” he said.

“It would be useless,” she answered.

“Stay,” he said stiffly, “do you love anyone else?”

But before she had time to speak he said quickly, “Wait! I’ve no
right to ask that question, and I will not hear you answer it.”

“You are very noble, Jason,” she said.

“I was thinking of myself,” he said.

“Jason,” she cried, “I meant to ask you to release me, but you
have put me to shame, and now I ask you to choose for me. I
have promised myself to you, and if you wish it I will keep my
promise.”

At that he stood, a sorrowful man, beside her for a moment’s
space before he answered her, and only the tones of his voice
could tell how much his answer cost him.

“No—ah, no,” he said; “no, Greeba, to keep your promise to me
would be too cruel to you.”

“Think of yourself now,” she cried.

“There’s no need to do that,” he said, “for either way I am
a broken man. But you shall not also be broken-hearted, and
neither shall the man who parts us.”

Saying this, a ghastly white hand seemed to sweep across his
face, but at the next moment he smiled feebly and said, “God
bless you both.”

Greeba goes to Michael and Iceland, and Jason, remembering his vow, follows her. A succession of events have made Sunlocks the Governor of Iceland, for its short-lived Republic. Knowing that the man he is in search of is the Governor, Jason now finds that the Governor is Michael Sunlocks. Beside himself with the knowledge of all the man has unconsciously stolen from him, Jason dogs him with intent to kill, but, being discovered by Greeba, is denounced by her and sentenced to penal servitude in the sulphur-mines.

The six sons of Adam Fairbrother, discovering the purpose of Greeba’s flight from their home, decide that in brotherliness they will go to her and share her prosperity. Failing in their purpose, they successfully attempt to poison Michael’s mind against her, telling him that Greeba had loved Jason at the time that she had left the Isle of Man. Michael, in his revulsion of feeling, determines to take from Greeba the position for the sake of which he believes her to have married, and summons the _Althing_ in order to resign his office of Governor. While the meeting is in progress, the doors of the Senate House are locked, and the building surrounded by Danish soldiers. The Republic is overthrown, and Michael Sunlocks, as a political prisoner, is sent to the mines.

Thus the most touching and at the same time the most terrible part of the story is reached. Touching because of the great love that grows up in Jason’s heart for Sunlocks, his bondfellow; terrible, because of the fiendish inhumanities of Michael’s lot. This is the description of the place of torment.

It was a grim wilderness of awful things, not cold and dead and
dumb like the rest of that haggard land, but hot and alive with
inhuman fire and clamorous with devilish noises. A wide ashen
plain within a circle of hills whereon little snow could rest
for the furnace that raged beneath the surface; shooting with
shrill whistles in shafts of hot steam from a hundred fumeroles;
bubbling up in a thousand jets of boiling water; hissing from
a score of green cauldrons; grumbling low with mournful sounds
underneath, like the voice of subterranean wind, and sending up
a noxious stench through heavy whorls of vapour that rolled in
a fetid atmosphere overhead. Oh, it was a fearsome place, like
nothing on God’s earth but a mouldering wreck of human body, vast
and shapeless, and pierced deep with foulest ulcers; a leper
spot on earth’s face; a seething vat full of broth of hell’s own
brewing. And all around was the peaceful snow, and beyond the
line of the southern hills was the tranquil sea, and within the
northern mountains was a quiet lake of water as green as the
grass of spring.

Spurred by the cruel treatment of Sunlocks, Jason breaks away, carrying on his shoulders the half-insensible body of his now blind and maimed companion. They manage to reach the valley of Thingvellir, where the biennial of _Althing_ is taking place, and there, as the custom allows, Jason demands justice and freedom. It is granted to him as a criminal of Iceland, but denied to Sunlocks as a Danish prisoner; and Sunlocks is therefore sent in his helpless, blind condition to the custody of a priest on an outstanding island. There Greeba, who has followed him in his wanderings, takes domestic service with the priest, that she may tend Michael and win back his love, and there Jason comes, to lay down his life for his friend after effecting his escape.

Thus ends one of the most powerful novels ever written, great by reason of its strength of thought and directness of utterance. And yet, here and there in its pages, are passages of wonderful softness, tender pictures of the consolation of childhood—little Sunlocks, little Greeba, and the little child Michael. This is what we grow to look for in Hall Caine, the tenderness and the tragedy of humanity. They form the strength of his novels, and it is they that will make them live through the ages, based as they are on truths and passions that are old as the world is old.

The publication of _The Bondman_ established, once and for all, Hall Caine’s claims to genius; it confirmed the impression created by _The Deemster_, and there was hardly one dissentient voice in the verdict of the critics who proclaimed it as one of the masterpieces of the century. The late T. E. Brown wrote the following letter to Mr Caine immediately after reading _The Bondman_.

“CLIFTON, _February 1890_.

“MY DEAR SIR,—I have sent a review of _The Bondman_ to the _Scots
Observer_ by same post; and I hope that it will appear in next
Saturday’s issue.

“A thousand thanks for the work sent to me by Heinemann. How
splendidly he has done it! I am reading it again with fresh
interest and admiration. Nor is it otherwise than pleasant to me
to find in your story some trail of what I must suppose is old
inveterate Manxness. How curious that you should have preserved
echoes, however faint, of your father’s talk! But why _curious_?
Still you will agree with me that they ought to be ruthlessly (!)
extirpated. They turn up in your English, not in your Anglo-Manx.
I give an instance—after the verb _threaten_ an inversion as with
interrogations, _e.g._, ‘He threatened what would he do to them.’
Let me give that in your ear with full Manx flavour, and you will
feel yourself standing very close to the Lob-y-Valley. But even
without the flavouring, you perceive that it is Manx, though it
may be a rusticity common to many parts of the country.

“Trailing behind her these insignificant appendages, your book
floats forth to certain success, a magnificent craft, fit for
deep waters and the large horizon. Good luck to her! Kindest
regards to Mrs Caine and Ralphie, in which my daughters cordially
unite.—Ever yours,

“T. E. BROWN.”

This letter is but one out of many hundreds received by Mr Caine from all parts of the world, congratulating him on his success. The dramatic tension, so admirably sustained throughout every page of the book, took the literary world by storm, and the sale of the book to-day, eleven years after publication, is extremely large.

_The Bondman_ was written with Mr Caine’s usual care. With his wife and child he paid a two months’ visit to Iceland, there to gather material and local colour for his book. It was begun in March 1889, at Aberleigh Lodge, Bexley Heath, Kent, and was finished in October of the same year at Castlerigg Cottage, Keswick. Always greatly attracted by Cumberland, Mr Caine had now settled down there permanently; it was not until a few years afterwards that he made his home in the Isle of Man.

Later in this year Sir Henry Irving commissioned him to write a drama with Mahomet as the central character. The subject fascinated him, and in a short time he was immersed in the study of Mahomet, his life and his times. Three acts were written in a fever of enthusiasm; and then came a great disappointment. The almighty British Public, hearing of Mr Caine’s work, took upon itself to be shocked, and, growing tired of silent indignation, raised its voice in alarm, and protested vehemently. The Press took up the cry and pointed out that British Mohammedans would certainly be offended. Sir Henry took alarm, and telegraphed to Mr Caine that the idea could not be carried out. But the dramatist was heart and soul in his work, and only spared the time to write a vehement article in _The Speaker_, pointing out that his critics were too hasty, before he went on with the writing of his play and finished it. Irving, of course, was as much annoyed as Mr Caine, and offered the latter a substantial sum to recompense him for the trouble he had taken; Mr Caine, however, refused to accept a penny, and offered his play to Willard for production in America. It was at once accepted, but has not yet been put on the boards.