The Preacher of Cedar Mountain: A Tale of the Open Country Read online

  CHAPTER III

  How He Lost His Father

  The immediate and physical environment of Links was the far backwoods ofCanada, but the spirit and thought of it were Irish. The inhabitantswere nearly all of Irish origin, most of them of Irish birth, and thefates had ruled it so that they came from all parts of the green isle.The North was as well represented as the South, and the feuds of the oldland were most unprofitably transferred to the new.

  Two days on the calendar had long been set aside by custom for thecelebration of these unhappy feuds; the seventeenth of March, which isSt. Patrick's Day, and the twelfth of July, on which, two hundred yearsbefore, King William had crossed the river to win the famous Battle ofthe Boyne. Under the evil spell of these two memorable occasions,neighbours who were good and helpful friends, felt in honour bound tolay all their kindness aside twice every year, and hate and harass eachother with a senseless vindictiveness.

  At the time with which this chronicle has to do, Orange Day had dawnedon Links. No rising treble issued from the sawmills; the air was almostfree of their dust, and there were hints of holiday on all the town.Farmers' wagons were arriving early, and ribbons of orange and blue werefastened in the horses' headgear. From the backyard of Downey's Hotelthe thumping of a big drum was heard, and the great square piles ofyellow lumber near Ford's Mill gave back the shrilling of fifes thatwere tuning up for the event. As the sun rose high, the Orangemen of theLodge appeared, each wearing regalia--cuffs and a collarette of sky-bluewith a fringe of blazing orange, or else of gold, inscribed with lettersand symbols.

  The gathering place was in the street before the Lodge Hall, and theirnumber was steadily increased by men from the surrounding farms. Thebrethren of the opposite faith, the Catholics--more often called"Dogans" or "Papists"--were wisely inconspicuous. Had it been their day,their friends, assembled from far places, would have given them numbersenough for safety and confidence; but now the boys in green were, forthe most part, staying at home and seeking to avoid offence.

  In the stable yard of Downey's Hotel, where Jim Hartigan--the father ofour hero--and several others of his Church were disconsolately lookingforward to a dreary and humiliating day, the cheery uproar of theOrangemen in the bar-room could plainly be heard. James himself wassurprised at his restraint in not being there too, for he was a typicalIrish "bhoy" from the west coast, with a religion of Donegal colour andintensity. Big, hearty, uproarious in liquor, and full of fun at alltimes, he was universally beloved. Nothing could or did depress Jim forlong; his spirits had a generous rebound. A boisterous, blue-eyed boy ofheroic stature, he was the joy of Downey's, brim-full of the fun of lifeand the hero of unnumbered drinking bouts in the not so very distantpast. But--two months before--Jim had startled Links and horrified hispriest by marrying Kitty Muckevay of the gold-red hair. Kitty had a raremeasure of good sense but was a Protestant of Ulster inflexibility. Shehad taken Jim in hand to reform him, and for sixty days he had nottouched a drop! Moreover he had promised Kitty to keep out of mischiefon this day of days. All that morning he had worked among the horses inDowney's livery stable where he was head man. It was a public holiday,and he had been trying desperately to supply a safety valve for hisbursting energy. His excitible Irish soul was stirred by the murmur ofthe little town, now preparing for the great parade, as it had beenstirred twice every year since he could remember, but now to thefarthest depths.

  He had swallowed successfully one or two small affronts from the passingOrangemen, because he was promise-bound and sober; but when one of theenemy, a boon companion on any other day, sought him out in the stableyard and, with the light of devilment in his eyes, walked up holding outa flask of whiskey and said: "Hartigan! Ye white-livered, weak-needpapist, ye're not man enough to take a pull at that, an' tip the hat affof me head!" Hartigan's resolutions melted like wax before the flare ofhis anger. Seizing the flask, he took a mouthful of the liquor andspurted it into the face of the tormentor. The inevitable fight did notamount to much as far as the casualties went, but what loomed large wasthe fact that Hartigan had filled his mouth with the old liquidinsanity. Immediately he was surrounded by those who were riotouslypossessed of it, and in fifteen minutes Jimmy Hartigan was launched onthe first drunken carouse he had known since he was a married man inpublic disgrace with the priest for mating with a Protestant.

  The day wore on and the pace grew faster. There were fun and fightinggalore, and Jimmy was in his element again. Occasional qualms therewere, no doubt, when he had a moment to remember how Kitty would feelabout it all. But this was his day of joy--mad, rollicking, bacchanalianjoy--and all the pent-up, unhallowed hilarity of the bygone months foundvent in deeds more wild than had ever been his before.

  The Orangemen's procession started from their lodge, with three drumsand one fife trilling a wheezing, rattling manglement of "Croppies LieDown," whose only justification lay in the fact that it was maintaininga tradition of the time; and Jimmy Hartigan, besieged in the livery yardwith half a dozen of his coreligionists, felt called upon to avenge thehonour of the South of Ireland at these soul-polluting sounds. Someonesuggested a charge into the ranks of the approaching procession, withits sizzling band and its abhorrent orange-and-blue flags, following inthe wake of Bill Kenna, whose proud post was at the head of theprocession, carrying a cushion on which was an open Bible. The fact thatBill was a notorious ruffian--incapable of reading, and reelingdrunk--had no bearing on his being chosen as Bible carrier. The Biblefell in the dust many times and was accidentally trampled on by itsbearer, which was unfortunate but not important. Bill bore the emblem ofhis organization and, being a good man with his fists, he was amplyqualified for his job.

  But the sight of all this truculence and the ostentatious way in whichthe little green flags were trampled on and insulted, was too much forJimmy and his inspired companions.

  "Let's charge the hull rabble," was the suggestion.

  "What! Six charge one hundred and twenty!"

  "Why not?"

  The spirit of Gideon's army was on them, and Jimmy shouted: "Sure,bhoys, let's hitch to that and give it to 'em. Lord knows their blacksouls need it." He pointed to a great barrel half full of whitewashstanding in a wagon ready for delivery next day at the little steamerdock, where a coat of whitewash on the wharf and shed was the usualexpedient to take the place of lights for night work.

  Thus it came about. The biggest, strongest team in the stable washarnessed in a minute. The men were not too drunk to pick the best inhorses and harness. The barrel was filled brim-full with water and wellstirred up, so that ammunition would be abundant. Jimmy was to be thedriver; the other five were each armed with a bucket, except one whofound a force pump through which the whitewash could be squirted withdelightful precision. They were to stand around the barrel and dash itscontents right and left as Jimmy drove the horses at full speed down themiddle of the procession. Glorious in every part was the plan; wildenthusiasm carried all the six away and set the horses on their mettle.

  Armed with a long, black snake whip, Jimmy mounted the wagon seat. Thegate was flung wide, and, with a whoop, away went that bumping chariotof splashing white. Bill Kenna had just dropped his Bible for theeleventh time and, condemning to eternal perdition all thoseill-begotten miscreants who dared to push him on or help his search, heheld the ranks behind him for a moment halted. At this instant with awild shout, in charged Jim Hartigan, with his excited crew. There wasnot a man in the procession who had not loved Hartigan the day before,and who did not love him the day after; but there was none that did nothate him with a bitter hate on this twelfth day of July, as he chargedand split the procession wide open.

  The five helpers dashed their bewildering, blinding slush fast and far,on every face and badge that they could hit; and the pump stream hitKenna square in the face as he yelled in wrath. The paraders were notarmed for such a fight. Men that could face bullets, knives, and death,were dismayed, defeated, and routed by these baffling bucketfuls and theamazing precision of the squirting
pump.

  Strong hands clutched at the bridle reins, but the team was plunging andgoing fast. The driver was just drunk enough for recklessness; he keptthe horses jumping all down that Orangemen's parade. Oh, what a rout itmade! And the final bucketfuls were hurled in through the window of theOrange Lodge, just where they were needed most, as Jimmy and his fivemade their escape.

  The bottle now went round once more. Shrieking with laughter at theirsweeping, bloodless victory, the six Papists saw the processionrearrayed. Kenna had recovered and wiped his face with one coat sleeve,his Bible with the other. The six dispensers of purity could not resistit; they must charge again. Hartigan wheeled the horses to make the turnat a run. But with every circumstance against him--speed and recklessdriving, a rough and narrow roadway beset with stumps--the wagonlurched, crashed, upset, and the six went sprawling in the ditch. Thehorses ran away to be afterward rounded up at a farm stable three milesoff, with the fragments of a wagon trailing behind them.

  The anger of the Orangemen left them as they gathered around. Five ofthe raiders were badly shaken and sobered, one lay still on the stones,a deep and bloody dent in his head. The newly arrived, newly fledgeddoctor came, and when after a brief examination, he said: "He'sdead--all right," there was a low, hollow sound of sympathy among themen who ten minutes before would gladly have killed him. One voice spokefor all the rest.

  "Poor lad! He was a broth of a bhoy! Poor little Widdy Hartigan."