Chapter VII: A Ship Without a Rudder

I

If I were a painter I should make three pictures. For the painting of _Life_ I should dip my brushes only in sunlight and starlight. That it contrast with the darkness his figure should stand radiant. For the painting of _Hope_ the sunrise should be my palette, and robed in splendors of the sky, triumphant he should ride an unstable sea of glory. But for the painting of _Memory_, when I had used up all the sunset, I should pray God lend me a pot of glamour.

It is that glamour which allays the burning pain of memory, the fierce regret, the anger, shame, remorse. The stark event, the odious consequence, the bitter aftermath are all, as one looks back, arrayed in lovely hues of distance, and a sweet magic torn from the veil of time. So I recall that last year of my service in the mounted police; my soul which outlived defeat becomes victorious. He who stumbles and falls not, only mends his pace.

First I must speak of Sam, the young superintendent commanding D, an Irish-Canadian gentleman of a service family, and Regimental No. 1 of the mounted police. Because he was a born soldier, a record-breaking horseman, a great scout master and an incomparable leader, the untameable outlaws of the force were sent to him for treatment. They feared him, as they feared death, ate out of his hand, and made his division the crack troop of the outfit. He would carouse with his troopers all night, and punish us in the morning for being drunk, would drill us till we smashed, punish us without mercy and prove our best friend when we were in trouble. We loved and hated him fanatically, and like inspired fanatics made a crusade of our duties. The troop was just as brilliant as its leader.

In 1887, Chief Isadore and his Kootenay tribe were restive, so the province of British Columbia asked the Dominion government for help, and our troop was sent across the Crow's Nest Pass of the Rocky Mountains. Our base camp was the site of Fort Steele on Wild Horse Creek.

Now an English curate came to pass, and grieved at our spiritual destitution proposed an open air service. So Sam, being by his blood Anglican, Royalist and a soldier, ordered a church parade. Whereupon some of us became Roman Catholic, others found that their duties forbade attendance, and the rest of the troop went sick. Hence, a proclamation that at the sound of the bugle, cooks and Catholics, sick, lame or lazy should attend Sam's church parade on pain of death. Sam had his back up. Also the troop had its back up and in mass meeting resolved that any son of a sea cook presuming to sing, respond or contribute at a compulsory church parade should afterward be drowned. The service was therefore a duet between Sam and the curate without any sound from the chorus. Afterward Sam preached, announcing a second church parade next Sunday and hinting at setting up drills which would make the dearly beloved brethren sweat blood.

That afternoon at the bathing place we tried Beef Hardy by court-martial for contributing to the curate's offertory. He proved that he was only a civilian interpreter attached, and that his offering was a button. We had to let him off, but the whole troop yearned for somebody to drown.

"Brethren," said I. "Sinners! When that kind gentleman saved our souls this morning, it was borne in upon me what an abandoned parcel of Gadarene swine you all are--except me. You forget that our Sam is Smoothbore, the father of many children."

"Ho! Catch on to the Blackguard sucking up to Sam!"

"Triplet. I'm a man, and you're a nasty trick played on your mother."

The sentiment was cheered.

"And now," said I, "my little friends, I'm going to break out in a new place. I've got religion, and I don't propose to let you pollute my holy peace by using bad words, unless you think you can lick me."

"Why, dammit!" howled Red Saunders, who had the foulest mouth in the troop.

"My erring brother," said I.

"You go to 'ell!"

He dived, and fully dressed as I was I followed, holding him under water by his gaudy hair until he made signs for peace. Then he came up spluttering to breathe.

"But 'ow the devil--"

I told him not to brag about his father, then called him a catechumen, which knocked him out.

"Wall, I'll be damned!" said Pieface.

"True," said I, and immersed him. "Dost thou repent thee, Pieface? Art thou resolved to live a godly life, and pay me back three dollars that thou owest?"

I drowned him until he promised to sing in my choir next Sunday.

So finding that troopers were not allowed to swear, Mutiny, Tribulation and Calamity, who always hunted in concert, began a combined attack upon St. Blackguard.

On that, five decent men who disliked foul language promptly joined my choir for next Sunday, and proceeded to enlist with contusions Mutiny, Calamity and Tribulation. These with Red and Pieface for choristers-by-force, made eleven singers. They held the ring while I fought a battle with the cook. This learned doctor of beans and sow-belly outweighed me mainly below the belt, but was so fat that I found his vitals very hard to come at, and feared I should be overlain and smothered. Nine rounds we fought before he could be converted; but with him came three penitents whom he had thrashed that summer, and when they confessed their errors I had half the duty men for choristers at a cost of only two black eyes and an inflamed ear.

Nothing would suit me now short of triumph over all the wicked, but to secure a unanimous vote I must use the curate. Him I waylaid in the dusk, and gave him so smart a salute that his mule bucked. I picked him respectfully out of a rose bush and asked permission to speak with him in private.

"I want to sample your religion, sir."

The padre seemed to be shaken and resentful, saying that his religion had that very morning been freely offered.

"Freely?" I asked.

"You mean the parade was compulsory?"

"Yes, sir, rammed down our throats, an insult to Pater Noster. Any man guilty of taking part in that was to be drowned until he apologized to the troop."

"By jove," said the padre. "The next service shall be free. But will they sing?"

"Turn loose the national anthem," said I. "Any man shying at that is a traitor. Cover your lectern with the Union Jack, and the boys will stand to attention. Leave your sermon behind."

"Why!"

"Because each of us has lived more, sir, in twenty years, than you will in sixty. You can't teach until you've lived."

"You forget," he said huffily, "that I bear a message."

"A sword, Padre, in the hands of a fool."

He stepped back, tripped and sat down with a bang, very thoughtful.

Presently he tamed himself and, thinking of my words, "Pater Noster," asked if I were a Roman Catholic. His tone was full of bitter prejudice.

"Outdoor men," said I in my cock-surest manner, "don't join indoor denominations."

"You dare to call the church--that!"

"Has it not doors?" I asked meekly.

"Yes," he shouted, "and they are wide open to all mankind!"

"With a stuffy smell inside."

"You are irreverent. The church is holy."

"Our Lord," I spoke sincerely now, "described the church of His time as a den of thieves. As to what He said about the priests! I don't want to be rude to you, Padre. To get away from the church and the clergy He preached outdoors, lived in the wilderness and replaced all your dogmas and your doctrines with one word--Love. Do you follow Him, eh, Padre?"

I stepped back. "Do you know, sir," I asked, "what the ancient Greeks did when it rained? No? They got wet, Padre. You do the same." I passed behind a bush, and he thought I vanished. Afterward he told Sam that he had met the devil, and wrestled, coming out triumphant.

On Monday, the curate came with us on our march to the sources of the Columbia River. There at Lake Windermere, a steamer brought several loads of stores which we trans-shipped by wagon to our various outposts.

And so it was in camp at Windermere that the curate held free service, all hands and the cook attending. The flag on the lectern constrained us to decent conduct. The singing, led by St. Blackguard's choir with the national anthem was a great success. It rained right heartily, and in our cavalry cloaks we watched the padre getting wet like a sportsman. He cut the sermon and got a thumping offertory. Sam was pleased all to pieces, and on the betting I came out forty-nine dollars and fifty cents in solid cash.

In sober earnest, my choir toned down the language of the camp to the verge of decency, and from Buckie's Bible, which I had been reading steadily for a year, I set a good example to the troop. Thus, when the steamer skipper sold me a box of cigars: "The wicked shall consume," said I, "at two for a quarter." They did, but some of the wicked thought, in their fond way, that they could consume on credit.

"Young Murphy," said I, "thou owest for eight of the best."

"Oh, come off! What d'ye think yer playing at?"

"Surely," said I, "the wringing of the nose bringeth forth blood."

It did, and Murphy paid.

The box of cigars having netted twelve dollars, I got seven others worse than the first which fell on a stony crowd but yielded two hundredfold.

Next, the steamer cook sold me a litter of little pigs, and our cook supplied the husks which my swine did eat, so that they grew and waxed fat and kicked over the oat bin.

"Some evil beast," I told Buckie, "hath devoured two whole sacks of oats, and the quartermaster, he rageth furiously. He calleth upon the officer commanding, so I've sold out all my pigs. They're not our pigs now, Buckie--not unto us the praise--not unto us."

Buckie had a natural aptitude for being shocked. Two of him plus one harmonium would equal a mother's meeting.

The padre was a bigot, Buckie a prude, the boys were just ruffians, and none of them understood that I, the poor troop jester, with an aching heart, felt the need, the first faint stirrings of a real religion.

II

The camp beside Lake Windermere was destined to be my last before I left the force. So I recall the last evening of my peace, dwelling on all its memories, so bitter sweet.

I was in Buckie's tent, and sat by the door with palm and buckskin needle sewing a little sack of milk-white antelope hide. Red Saunders, still my friend in those days ere ever I knew him as an enemy, sat by me with his button-stick burnishing tunic buttons for to-morrow's guard. Yonder, across the way was Sergeant-Major Samlet, a plebeian parody of Sam, out patrician chief, instructing Buckie who wore the orderly corporal's cross belt for that week. With them stood the orderly officer, poor old Blatherskite, his frogged coat sharply black against their scarlet. In the nearest tent on my right were Brat, in charge, Beef Hardy the scout, Pieface and Spud Murphy of Cor-r-k, playing poker, silent as the grave. In the nearest tent on my left, that queer triumvirate, Mutiny, Calamity and Tribulation, were concocting secret plots with which the welkin rang.

And at my side Red Saunders comfortably grousing.

"When a man's got a 'orse," he growled, staring across at Blatherskite in a somber passion, "and grooms that 'orse and feeds that 'orse and rides 'im, and gets to like 'is 'orse, and the 'orse tikes to 'im, see? And some blatherskiting ---- of an orficer tikes thet 'orse awi' from 'im, and 'e bucks stiff-legged--wot I says is hair on 'im!"

I might 'ave 'eard much more about that 'orse, but Detective-Sergeant Ithuriel Fatty McBugjuice (Damme!) flicked me as he passed by with a bath towel (eh, what?) and bade me come for a swim in the blawsted lake. (Indeed, ah!) As he had taken off his serge with its gold badge of rank, I went with him in the evening calm to bathe. Afterward, Buckie's official duties permitted him to sit with me on the lake shore while I smoked.

Above the mirror lake with its flaws of silver, the dull gold hills bore scattered firs of solemn indigo, and faint in the gloaming loomed ranges of purple mist edged with the cold blue pallor of high snowfields. There floated the upper pinnacles of the Selkirks against the afterglow. And one by one white stars came out on guard.

I told Buckie that I intended to get drunk. He stiffly advised a milder line of conduct, and indeed milk with a bun would have proved too exciting for Buckie's indigestion department. His mother had a weekly letter from him to say that he wrote in the saddle, at the summit of the Rockies surrounded by hostile redskins, a bloody sword in one hand, a smoking revolver in the other. These letters were unofficial.

"Lead Kindly Light," he hummed. "Lead thou me on." The mother was his kindly light--but mine went out. He had a girl, too, who fancied him as a buck angel, whereas I suspected the prig even as corporal, and knew he would be an insufferable sergeant.

I, too, had been in love, and in my kit-bag was a photograph album of all the girls I had been engaged to marry, except the little lot which got burned in Carlton. I had tried to be good for each of these, except when they liked me bad, and even now could go straight--with occasional side-steps--if somebody really cared.

Buckie swore he cared--but what he really cared for was to be sergeant-major.

Brat cared for me, but he had dumb yearnings coming on at the time, and wrote bosh in verse.

Then Buckie suggested that my people loved me, but that was a sore point with an ache in the middle. My fat aunt and my fat uncle had lately got religion and were spending Brat's money as well as mine on a private chapel, a stout priest and that family patron of ours, the excellent San Jiminy. Him they begged to use his influence on behalf of the dear Brat and the beloved Blackguard to have us rescued from the sins of envy, covetousness and blasphemy--by post, to get us delivered from the alluring temptations of riches in a wicked world, that we might inherit the family pew in Paradise, wear the La Mancha halos, and twang the heirloom harps. Their son would bear the burden of our earthly heritage.

On learning these things I wrote to Tita saying that Brat and I were so robust in health that San Jiminy must surely be neglecting the family practise. Why not chuck him, and take on San Diablo who had done so well for Tito?

Tita's response as trustee was all about blasphemy, and my request for statement of account was piously ignored. Hence, my letter to our Cousin Isabella, begging Her Catholic Majesty to revive the good old Spanish inquisition, and have dear Tita fried.

The Queen Regent answered, telling me not to fuss, and sending my father's jewel of the Golden Fleece which she bade me wear as a remembrance. Of course I was being fleeced, not that Her Majesty was capable of a joke or any other breach of etiquette. I wore the jewel slung on a slender chain, and because the diamonds were scratchy against my skin was making it a little buckskin sack. I explained to Buckie that the thing was a popish object used for idolatry. That shocked him all to pieces, for Buckie was a Prot.

But why, he pleaded, should I get drunk?

I threw him our homely Spanish proverb, that wine is the tomb of memory, but it was no use throwing pearls before a corporal. He could not understand. Nor could I fully understand the aching of my heart, the bitter pain.

The Blatherskite, open-mouthed and shut-eyed as any hippopotamus, had sent a corporal only last week to ask if I would take on as his servant. Now Sam could claim a cadet for his esquire, but in Blatherskite it was most infernal cheek. A hippo, which neglected its tooth-brush, ate its beans with a knife--I sent it word that it might kiss my socks. I come of a breed trained to obedience and the command of armies from the days when Spaniards conquered and ruled the world. The badge of the Golden Fleece was mine by right, and to stand covered before the kings of Spain, my peers. But Spain is only a barren little country with a scattering on her moorlands of poor shepherds, unable to hold her own among the rich and populous nations of to-day. She had no armadas or armies left for her conquistadors to lead, no more new worlds to be made Christian by her gallant priests, no work for us La Manchas and our kinsmen. But robbed of our heritage, and driven from our country, the Brat and I were not less caballeros than our fathers, were still well able to earn our bread and wine as men-at-arms until Spain had need of us. A knight of the Golden Fleece may not be soldier-servant to any sort of hippopotamus. And the wound rankled. So I would get drunk and assault the guard.

And yet--the words came somehow from the air. "I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills, from whence cometh my help." I lifted up my eyes and saw the Selkirk Mountains, range on range dissolving into night; and far away against the upper snow-fields caught a faint glint as from some fallen star.

"What's that light?" asked Buckie, and I laughed. For that was the light at the Throne Mine, where Loco Burrows lived as caretaker in charge. The Burrows woman wrote that she could see our camp. I was to address my letters "Mrs. Sarde," which sounded more important than Miss Burrows. She wanted me to call. That was the help from the hills, and I laughed out loud, jumping to my feet. Suppose the woman were to marry me! What a lark it would be to take her to Madrid--to the dullest, stiffest court-of-frumps in Europe! Enter that cat, and see the mice climb!

Then I heard the bugle softly crying,

"Come Home!
Come Home!
The long day's work is ended."

I stood behind Buckie, my hands upon his shoulders rocking him backward and forward, timing him to the music. "That's what they call 'Taps,'" I told him, "down yonder in the states, because the beer taps close." The lovely melody was cleaving skyward. "'Come home,' it says, 'come home!' It's all deportment and sage advice, Buckie. Where's home, Buckie? If you were in love with a Blackfoot squaw, would you turn squaw-man, Buckie? Or would you play with a respectable white pussie without any morals or manners, and try to forget about love? And what's the use of being good when it makes you a misery, eh, you poor chaffy corporal? If Christ were here to cast out devils, I'd have a last chance left, instead of getting drunk, and assaulting the guards as a pill to cure me of memory. Now, go call your roll and report me present and correct as usual. You can't steer a ship which has no rudder, Buckie."

He left me, and all that night my spirit was by the lake under the holy stars. As to what became of my body--