Castle Nowhere

C >> Constance Fenimore Woolson >> Castle Nowhere

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9

'As you please; I thought it would be a change for you, that was all.'

'It would only prolong--No, I think, if you are willing, we will have
the marriage here, and then you can sail immediately.'

'Very well; but I did not suppose you would be in such haste to part
with Silver,' said Waring, unable to resist showing his comprehension
of what he considered the manoeuvres of the old man. Then, waiving
further discussion,--'And where shall we find a clergyman?' he asked.

'There is one over on Beaver.'

'He must be a singular sort of a divine to be living there.'

'He is; a strayed spirit, as it were, but a genuine clergyman of the
Presbyterian church, none the less. I never knew exactly what he
represented there, but I think he came out originally a sort of
missionary.'

'To the Mormons,' said Waring, laughing; for he had heard old Fog tell
many a story of the Latter-Day Saints, who had on Beaver Island at
that time their most Eastern settlement.

'No; to the Indians.--sent out by some of those New England societies,
you know. When he reached the islands, he found the Indians mostly
gone, and those who remained were all Roman Catholics. But he settled
down, farmed a little, hunted a little, fished a little, and held a
service all by himself occasionally in an old log-house, just often
enough to draw his salary and to write up in his semiannual reports.
He isn't a bad sort of a man in his way.'

'And how does he get on with the Mormons?'

'Excellently. He lets them talk, and sells them fish, and shuts his
eyes to everything else.'

'What is his name?'

'Well, over here they call him the Preacher, principally because he
does not preach, I suppose. It is a way they have over on Beaver to
call people names; they call me Believer.'

'Believer?'

'Yes, because I believe nothing; at least so, they think.'

A few days later, out they sailed over the freed water, around the
point, through the sedge-gate growing green again, across the
channelled marsh, and out towards the Beavers,--Fog and Waring, armed
as if for a foray.

'Why,' asked Waring.

'It's safer; the Mormons are a queer lot,' was the reply.

When they came in sight of the islands, the younger man scanned them
curiously. Some years later an expedition composed of exasperated
crews of lake schooners, exasperated fishermen, exasperated mainland
settlers, sailed westward through the straits bound for these islands,
armed to the teeth and determined upon vengence and slaughter. False
lights, stolen nets, and stolen wives were their grievances; and no
aid coming from the general government, then as now sorely perplexed
over the Mormon problem, they took justice into their own hands and
sailed bravely out, with the stars and stripes floating from the mast
of their flag-ship,--an old scow impressed for military service. But
this was later; and when Fog and Waring came scudding into the harbor,
the wild little village existed in all its pristine outlawry, a city
of refuge for the flotsam vagabondage of the lower lakes.

'Perhaps he will not come with us,' suggested Waring.

'I have thought of that, but it need not delay us long,' replied Fog,
'we can kidnap him.'

'Kidnap him?'

'Yes? he is but a small chap,' said the old man, tranquilly.

They fastened their boat to the log-dock, and started ashore. The
houses of the settlement straggled irregularly along the beach and
inland towards the fields where fine crops were raised by the Saints,
who had made here, as is their custom everywhere, a garden in the
wilderness; the only defence was simple but strong,--an earthwork on
one of the white sand-hills back of the village, over whose rampart
peeped two small cannon, commanding the harbor. Once on shore,
however, a foe found only a living rampart of flesh and blood, as
reckless a set of villains as New World history can produce. But this
rampart only came together in times of danger; ordinary visitors,
coming by twos and threes, they welcomed or murdered as they saw fit,
or according to the probable contents of their pockets, each man for
himself and his family. Some of these patriarchal gentlemen glared
from their windows at Fog and Waring as they passed along; but the
worn clothes not promising much, simply invited them to dinner; they
liked to hear the news, when there was nothing else going on. Old Fog
excused himself. They had business, he said, with the Preacher; was he
at home?

He was; had anything been sent to him from the East,--any clothes,
now, for the Indians?

Old Fog had heard something of a box at Mackinac, waiting for a
schooner to bring it over. He was glad it was on the way, it would be
of so much use to the Indians,--they wore so many clothes.

The patriarchs grinned, and allowed the two to pass on. Waring had
gazed within, meanwhile, and discovered the plural wives, more or less
good-looking, generally less; they did not seem unhappy, however, not
so much as many a single one he had met in more luxurious homes, and
he said to himself, 'Women of the lower class are much better and
happier when well curbed.' It did not occur to him that possibly the
evil tempers of men of the lower class are made more endurable by a
system of co-operation; one reed bends, breaks, and dies, but ten
reeds together can endure.

The Preacher was at home on the outskirts,--a little man, round and
rosy, with black eyes and a cheery voice. He was attired entirely in
blanket-cloth, baggy trousers and a long blouse, so that he looked not
unlike a Turkish Santa Claus, Oriental as to under, and arctic as to
upper rigging. 'Are you a clergyman?' said Waring, inspecting him with
curious eyes.

'If you doubt it, look at this,' said the little man; and he brought
out a clerical suit of limp black cloth, and a ministerial hat much
the worse for wear. These articles he suspended from a nail, so that
they looked as if a very poor lean divine had hung himself there. Then
he sat down, and took his turn at staring. 'I do not bury the dead,'
he remarked after a moment, as if convinced that the two shabby
hunters before him could have no other errand.

Waring was about to explain, but old Fog stopped him with a glance.
'You are to come with us, sir,' he said courteously; 'you will be well
treated, well paid, and returned in a few days.'

'Come with you! Where?'

'Never mind where; will you come?'

'No,' said the little blanket-man, stoutly.

In an instant Fog had tripped him up, seized a sheet and blanket from
the bed, bound his hands and feet with one, and wrapped him in the
other. 'Now, then,' he said shouldering the load, 'open the door.'

'But the Mormons,' objected Waring.

'O, they like a joke, they will only laugh! But if, by any chance,
they show fight, fire at once,' replied the old man, leading the way.
Waring followed, his mind anything but easy; it seemed to him like
running the gantlet. He held his pistols ready, and glanced furtively
around as they skirted the town and turned down towards the beach. 'If
any noise is made,' Fog had remarked, 'I shall know what to do.'

Whereupon the captive swallowed down his wrath and a good deal of
woollen fuzz, and kept silence. He was no coward, this little
Preacher. He held his own manfully on the Beavers; but no one had ever
carried him off in a blanket before, So he silently considered the
situation.

When near the boat they came upon more patriarchs. 'Put a bold face on
it,' murmured old Fog. 'Whom do you suppose we have here?' he began,
as they approached. 'Nothing less than your little Preacher; we want
to borrow him for a few days.'

The patriarchs stared.

'Don't you believe it?--Speak up, Preacher; are you being carried
off?'

No answer.

'You had better speak,' said Fog, jocosely, at the same time giving
his captive a warning touch with his elbow.

The Preacher had revolved the situation rapidly, and perceived that in
any contest his round body would inevitably suffer from friend and foe
alike. He was not even sure but that he would be used as a missile, a
sort of ponderous pillow swung at one end. So he replied briskly,
'Yes, I am being carried as you see, dear brethren; I don't care about
walking to-day.'

The patriarchs laughed, and followed on to the boat, laughing still
more when Fog gayly tossed in his load of blanket, and they could hear
the little man growl as he came down. 'I say, though, when are you
going to bring him back, Believer?' said one.

'In a few days,' replied Fog, setting sail.

Away they flew; and, when out of harbor, the captive was released, and
Waring told him what was required.

'Why didn't you say so before?' said the little blanket-man; 'nothing
I like better than a wedding, and a drop of punch afterwards.'

His task over, Fog relapsed into silence; but Waring, curious, asked
many a question about the island and its inhabitants. The Preacher
responded freely in all things, save when the talk glided too near
himself. The Mormons were not so bad, he thought; they had their
faults, of course, but you must take them on the right side.

'Have they a right side?' asked Waring.

'At least they haven't a rasping, mean, cold, starving, bony,
freezing, busy-bodying side,' was the reply, delivered energetically;
whereat Waring concluded the little man had had his own page of
history back somewhere among the decorous New England hills.

Before they came to the marsh they blindfolded their guest; and did
not remove the bandage until he was safely within the long room of the
castle. Silver met them, radiant in the firelight.

'Heaven grant you its blessing, maiden,' said the Preacher, becoming
Biblical at once. He meant it, however, for he sat gazing at her long
with moistened eyes, forgetful even of the good cheer on the table; a
gleam from his far-back youth came to him, a snow-drop that bloomed
and died in bleak New Hampshire long, long before.

The wedding was in the early morning. Old Fog had hurried it, hurried
everything; he seemed driven by a spirit of unrest, and wandered from
place to place, from room to room, his eyes fixed in a vacant way upon
the familiar objects. At the last moment he appeared with a
prayer-book, its lettering old, its cover tarnished. 'Have you any
objection to using the Episcopal service?' he asked in a low tone.
'I--I have heard the Episcopal service.'

'None in the world,' replied the affable little Preacher.

But he too grew sober and even earnest as Silver appeared, clad in
white, her dress and hair wreathed with the trailing arbutus, the
first flower of spring, plucked from under the vanishing snows. So
beautiful her face, so heavenly its expression, that Waring as he took
her hand, felt his eyes grow dim, and he vowed to himself to cherish
her with tenderest love forever.

'We are gathered together here in the sight of God,' began the
Preacher solemnly; old Fog, standing behind, shrank into the shadow,
and bowed his head upon his hands. But when the demand came, 'Who
giveth this woman to be married to this man?' he stepped forward, and
gave away his child without a tear, nay, with even a smile on his
brave old face.

'To love, cherish, and to obey,' repeated Silver in her clear sweet
voice.

And then Waring placed upon her finger the little ring he himself had
carved out of wood. 'It shall never be changed,' he said, 'but coated
over with heavy gold, just as it is.'

Old Orange, radiant with happiness, stood near, and served as a foil
for the bridal white.

It was over; but they were not to start until noon.

Fog put the Preacher almost forcibly into the boat and sailed away
with him, blindfolded and lamenting.

'The wedding feast,' he cried, 'and the punch! You are a fine host,
old gentleman.'

'Everything is here, packed in those baskets. I have even given you
two fine dogs. And there is your fee. I shall take you in sight of the
Beavers, and then put you into the skiff and leave you to row over
alone. The weather is fine, you can reach there to-morrow.'

Remonstrance died away before the bag of money; old Fog had given his
all for his darling's marriage-fee. 'I shall have no further use for
it,' he thought, mechanically.

So the little blanket-man paddled away in his skiff with his share of
the wedding-feast beside him; the two dogs went with him, and became
Mormons.

Old Fog returned in the sail-boat through the channels, and fastened
the sedge-gate open for the out-going craft. Silver, timid and happy,
stood on the balcony as he approached the castle.

'It is time to start,' said the impatient bridegroom. 'How long you
have been, Fog!'

The old man made no answer, but busied himself arranging the boat; the
voyage to Mackinac would last two or three days, and he had provided
every possible comfort for their little camps on shore.

'Come,' said Waring, from below.

Then the father went up to say good by. Silver flung her arms around
his neck and burst into tears. 'Father, father,' she sobbed, 'must I
leave you? O father, father!'

He soothed her gently; but something in the expression of his calm,
pallid face touched the deeper feelings of the wakening woman and she
clung to him desperately, realizing, perhaps, at this last moment, how
great was his love for her, how great his desolation. Waring had
joined them on the balcony. He bore with her awhile and tried to calm
her grief, but the girl turned from him and clung to the old man; it
was as though she saw at last how she had robbed him. 'I cannot leave
him thus,' she sobbed; 'O father, father!'

Then Waring struck at the root of the difficulty. (Forgive him; he was
hurt to the core.) 'But he is not your father,' he said, 'he has no
claim upon you. I am your husband now, Silver, and you must come with
me; do you not wish to come with me, darling?' he added, his voice
sinking into fondness.

'Not my father!' said the girl. Her arms fell, and she stood as if
petrified.

'No, dear; he is right. I am not your father,' said old Fog, gently. A
spasm passed over his features, he kissed her hastily, and gave her
into her husband's arms. In another moment they were afloat, in two
the sail filled and the boat glided away. The old man stood on the
castle roof, smiling and waving his hand; below, Orange fluttered her
red handkerchief from the balcony, and blessed her darling with
African mummeries. The point was soon rounded, the boat gone.

That night, when the soft spring moonlight lay over the water, a sail
came gliding back to the castle, and a shape flew up the ladder; it
was the bride of the morning.

'O father, father, I could not leave you so, I made him bring me back,
if only for a few days! O father, father! for you are my father, the
only father I can ever know,--and so kind and good!'

In the gloom she knelt by his bedside, and her arms were around his
neck. Waring came in afterwards, silent and annoyed, yet not unkind.
He stirred the dying brands into a flame.

'What is this?' he said, starting, as the light fell across the
pillow.

'It is nothing,' replied Fog, and his voice sounded far away; 'I am an
old man, children, and all is well.'

They watched him through the dawning, through the lovely day, through
the sunset. Waring repentant, Silver absorbed in his every breath; she
lavished upon him now all the wealth of love her unconscious years had
gathered. Orange seemed to agree with her master that all was well.
She came and went, but not sadly, and crooned to herself some strange
African tune that rose and fell more like a chant of triumph than a
dirge. She was doing her part, according to her light, to ease the
going of the soul out of this world.

Grayer grew the worn face, fainter the voice, colder the shrivelled
old hands in the girl's fond clasp.

'Jarvis, Jarvis, what is this?' she murmured, fearfully.

Waring came to her side and put his strong arm around her. 'My little
wife,' he said, 'this is Death. But do not fear.'

And then he told her the story of the Cross; and, as it came to her a
revelation, so, in the telling, it became to him, for the first time,
a belief.

Old Fog told them to bury him out in deep water, as he had buried the
others; and then he lay placid, a great happiness shining in his eyes.

'It is well,' he said, 'and God is very good to me. Life would have
been hard without you, darling. Something seemed to give way when you
said good by; but now that I am called, it is sweet to know that you
are happy, and sweeter still to think that you came back to me at the
last. Be kind to her, Waring. I know you love her; but guard her
tenderly,--she is but frail. I die content, my child, quite content;
do not grieve for me.'

Then, as the light faded from his eyes, he folded his hands. 'Is it
expiated, O God? Is it expiated?' he murmured. There was no answer
for him on earth.

They buried him as he had directed, and then they sailed away, taking
the old black with them. The castle was left alone; the flowers
bloomed on through the summer, and the rooms held the old furniture
bravely through the long winter. But gradually the walls fell in and
the water entered. The fogs still steal across the lake, and wave
their gray draperies up into the northern curve; but the sedge-gate is
gone, and the castle is indeed Nowhere.

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 Caesar 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 feel 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, owing 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.

On Sunday there was service in the little chapel, an upper room
overlooking the inside parade-ground. Here the kindly Episcopal
chaplain read the chapters about Balaam and Balak, and always made the
same impressive pause after 'Let me die the death of the righteous,
and let my last end be like his.' (Dear old man! he has gone. Would
that our last end might indeed be like his!) Not that the chaplain
confined his reading to the Book of Numbers; but as those chapters are
appointed for the August Sundays, and as it was in August that the
summer visitors came to Mackinac, the little chapel is in many minds
associated with the patient Balak, his seven altars, and his seven
rams.

There was state and discipline in the fort even on Sundays;
bugle-playing marshalled the congregation in, bugle-playing marshalled
them out. If the sermon was not finished, so much the worse for the
sermon, but it made no difference to the bugle; at a given moment it
sounded, and out marched all the soldiers, drowning the poor
chaplain's hurrying voice with their tramp down the stairs. The
officers attended service in full uniform, sitting erect and dignified
in the front seats. We used to smile at the grand air they had, from
the stately gray-haired major down to the youngest lieutenant fresh
from the Point. But brave hearts were beating under those fine
uniforms; and when the great struggle came, one and all died on the
field in the front of the battle. Over the grave of the commanding
officer is inscribed, 'Major-General,' over the captain's is
'Brigadier,' and over each young lieutenant is 'Colonel.' They gained
their promotion in death.

I spent many months at Fort Mackinac with Archie; Archie was my
nephew, a young lieutenant. In the short, bright summer came the
visitors from below; all the world outside is 'below' in island
vernacular. In the long winter the little white fort looked out over
unbroken ice-fields, and watched for the moving black dot of the
dog-train bringing the mails from the main land. One January day I had
been out walking on the snow-crust, breathing the cold, still air,
and, returning within the walls to our quarters, I found my little
parlor already occupied. Jeannette was there, petite Jeanneton, the
fisherman's daughter. Strange beauty sometimes results from a mixed
descent, and this girl had French, English and Indian blood in her
veins, the three races mixing and intermixing among her ancestors,
according to the custom of the Northwestern border. A bold profile
delicately finished, heavy blue-black hair, light blue eyes looking
out unexpectedly from under black lashes and brows; a fair white skin,
neither the rose-white of the blonde nor the cream-white of the
Oriental brunette; a rounded form with small hands and feet, showed
the mixed beauties of three nationalities. Yes, there could be no
doubt but that Jeannette was singularly lovely, albeit ignorant
utterly. Her dress was as much of a melange as her ancestry: a
short skirt of military blue, Indian leggings and moccasins, a red
jacket and little red cap embroidered with beads. The thick braids of
her hair hung down her back, and on the lounge lay a large
blanket-mantle lined with fox-skins and ornamented with the plumage of
birds. She had come to teach me bead-work; I had already taken several
lessons to while away the time, but found myself an awkward scholar.

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9