Black Rock by Ralph Connor (top non fiction books of all time TXT) 📕

‘A man to be envied,’ said the minister, smiling. ‘I am glad to know any friend of Mr. Graeme’s.’

I liked Mr. Craig from the first. He had good eyes that looked straight out at you, a clean-cut, strong face well set on his shoulders, and altogether an upstanding, manly bearing. He insisted on going with Sandy to the stables to see Dandy, his broncho, put up.

‘Decent fellow,’ said Graeme; ‘but though he is good enough to his broncho, it is Sandy that’s in his mind now.’

‘Does he come out often? I mean, are you part of his parish, so to speak?’

‘I have no doubt he thinks so; and I’m blowed if he doesn’t make the Presbyterians of us think so too.’ And he added after a pause, ‘A dandy lot of parishioners we are for any man. There’s Sandy, now, he would knock Keefe’s head off as a kind of religious exercise; but to-morrow Keefe will be sober, and Sandy will be drunk as a lord, and the drunker he is the better Presbyterian he’ll be; to the preacher’s disgust.’ Then after another pause he added bitterly, ‘But it is not for me to throw rocks at Sandy; I am not the same kind of fool, but I am a fool of several other sorts.’

Then the cook came out and beat a tattoo on the bottom of a dish-pan. Baptiste answered with a yell: but though keenly hungry, no man would demean himself to do other than walk with apparent reluctance to his place at the table. At the further end of the camp was a big fireplace, and from the door to the fireplace extended the long board tables, covered with platters of turkey not too scientifically carved, dishes of potatoes, bowls of apple sauce, plates of butter, pies, and smaller dishes distributed at regular intervals. Two lanterns hanging from the roof, and a row of candles stuck into the wall on either side by means of slit sticks, cast a dim, weird light over the scene.

There was a moment’s silence, and at a nod from Graeme Mr. Craig rose and said, ‘I don’t know how you feel about it, men, but to me this looks good enough to be thankful for.’

‘Fire ahead, sir,’ called out a voice quite respectfully, and the minister bent his head and said—

‘For Christ the Lord who came to save us, for all the love and goodness we have known, and for these Thy gifts to us this Christmas night, our Father, make us thankful. Amen.’

‘Bon, dat’s fuss rate,’ said Baptiste. ‘Seems lak dat’s make me hit (eat) more better for sure,’ and then no word was spoken for quarter of an hour. The occasion was far too solemn and moments too precious for anything so empty as words. But when the white piles of bread and the brown piles of turkey had for a second time vanished, and after the last pie had disappeared, there came a pause and hush of expectancy, whereupon the cook and cookee, each bearing aloft a huge, blazing pudding, came forth.

‘Hooray!’ yelled Blaney, ‘up wid yez!’ and grabbing the cook by the shoulders from behind, he faced him about.

Mr. Craig was the first to respond, and seizing the cookee in the same way, called out, ‘Squad, fall in! quick march!’ In a moment every man was in the procession.

‘Strike up, Batchees, ye little angel!’ shouted Blaney, the appellation a concession to the minister’s presence; and away went Baptiste in a rollicking French song with the English chorus—

‘Then blow, ye winds, in the morning, Blow, ye winds, ay oh! Blow, ye winds, in the morning, Blow, blow, blow.’

And at each ‘blow’ every boot came down with a thump on the plank floor that shook the solid roof. After the second round, Mr. Craig jumped upon the bench, and called out—

‘Three cheers for Billy the cook!’

In the silence following the cheers Baptiste was heard to say, ‘Bon! dat’s mak me feel lak hit dat puddin’ all hup mesef, me.’

‘Hear till the little baste!’ said Blaney in disgust.

‘Batchees,’ remonstrated Sandy gravely, ‘ye’ve more stomach than manners.’

‘Fu sure! but de more stomach dat’s more better for dis puddin’,’ replied the little Frenchman cheerfully.

After a time the tables were cleared and pushed back to the wall, and pipes were produced. In all attitudes suggestive of comfort the men disposed themselves in a wide circle about the fire, which now roared and crackled up the great wooden chimney hanging from the roof. The lumberman’s hour of bliss had arrived. Even old man Nelson looked a shade less melancholy than usual as he sat alone, well away from the fire, smoking steadily and silently. When the second pipes were well a-going, one of the men took down a violin from the wall and handed it to Lachlan Campbell. There were two brothers Campbell just out from Argyll, typical Highlanders: Lachlan, dark, silent, melancholy, with the face of a mystic, and Angus, red-haired, quick, impulsive, and devoted to his brother, a devotion he thought proper to cover under biting, sarcastic speech.

Lachlan, after much protestation, interspersed with gibes from his brother, took the violin, and, in response to the call from all sides, struck up ‘Lord Macdonald’s Reel.’ In a moment the floor was filled with dancers, whooping and cracking their fingers in the wildest manner. Then Baptiste did the ‘Red River Jig,’ a most intricate and difficult series of steps, the men keeping time to the music with hands and feet.

When the jig was finished, Sandy called for ‘Lochaber No More’; but Campbell said, ‘No, no! I cannot play that tonight. Mr. Craig will play.’

Craig took the violin, and at the first note I knew he was no ordinary player. I did not recognise the music, but it was soft and thrilling, and got in by the heart, till every one was thinking his tenderest and saddest thoughts.

After he had played two or three exquisite bits, he gave Campbell his violin, saying, ‘Now, “Lochaber,” Lachlan.’

Without a word Lachlan began, not ‘Lochaber’—he was not ready for that yet—but ‘The Flowers o’ the Forest,’ and from that wandered through ‘Auld Robin Gray’ and ‘The Land o’ the Leal,’ and so got at last to that most soul-subduing of Scottish laments, ‘Lochaber No More.’ At the first strain, his brother, who had thrown himself on some blankets behind the fire, turned over on his face, feigning sleep. Sandy M’Naughton took his pipe out of his mouth, and sat up straight and stiff, staring into vacancy, and Graeme, beyond the fire, drew a short, sharp breath. We had often sat, Graeme and I, in our student-days, in the drawing-room at home, listening to his father wailing out ‘Lochaber’ upon the pipes, and I well knew that the awful minor strains were now eating their way into his soul.

Over and over again the Highlander played his lament. He had long since forgotten us, and was seeing visions of the hills and lochs and glens of his faraway native land, and making us, too, see strange things out of the dim past. I glanced at old man Nelson, and was startled at the eager, almost piteous, look in his eyes, and I wished Campbell would stop. Mr. Craig caught my eye, and, stepping over to Campbell, held out his hand for the violin. Lingeringly and lovingly the Highlander drew out the last strain, and silently gave the minister his instrument.

Without a moment’s pause, and while the spell of ‘Lochaber’ was still upon us, the minister, with exquisite skill, fell into the refrain of that simple and beautiful camp-meeting hymn, ‘The Sweet By and By.’ After playing the verse through once, he sang softly the refrain. After the first verse, the men joined in the chorus; at first timidly, but by the time the third verse was reached they were shouting with throats full open, ‘We shall meet on that beautiful shore.’ When I looked at Nelson the eager light had gone out of his eyes, and in its place was kind of determined hopelessness, as if in this new music he had no part.

After the voices had ceased, Mr. Craig played again the refrain, more and more softly and slowly; then laying the violin on Campbell’s knees, he drew from his pocket his little Bible, and said—

‘Men, with Mr. Graeme’s permission, I want to read you something this Christmas Eve. You will all have heard it before, but you will like it none the less for that.’

His voice was soft, but clear and penetrating, as he read the eternal story of the angels and the shepherds and the Babe. And as he read, a slight motion of the hand or a glance of an eye made us see, as he was seeing, that whole radiant drama. The wonder, the timid joy, the tenderness, the mystery of it all, were borne in upon us with overpowering effect. He closed the book, and in the same low, clear voice went on to tell us how, in his home years ago, he used to stand on Christmas Eve listening in thrilling delight to his mother telling him the story, and how she used to make him see the shepherds and hear the sheep bleating near by, and how the sudden burst of glory used to make his heart jump.

‘I used to be a little afraid of the angels, because a boy told me they were ghosts; but my mother told me better, and I didn’t fear them any more. And the Baby, the dear little Baby—we all love a baby.’ There was a quick, dry sob; it was from Nelson. ‘I used to peek through under to see the little one in the straw, and wonder what things swaddling clothes were. Oh, it was all so real and so beautiful!’ He paused, and I could hear the men breathing.

‘But one Christmas Eve,’ he went on, in a lower, sweeter tone, ‘there was no one to tell me the story, and I grew to forget it, and went away to college, and learned to think that it was only a child’s tale and was not for men. Then bad days came to me and worse, and I began to lose my grip of myself, of life, of hope, of goodness, till one black Christmas, in the slums of a faraway city, when I had given up all, and the devil’s arms were about me, I heard the story again. And as I listened, with a bitter ache in my heart, for I had put it all behind me, I suddenly found myself peeking under the shepherds’ arms with a child’s wonder at the Baby in the straw. Then it came over me like great waves, that His name was Jesus, because it was He that should save men from their sins. Save! Save! The waves kept beating upon my ears, and before I knew, I had called out, “Oh! can He save me?” It was in a little mission meeting on one of the side streets, and they seemed to be used to that sort of thing there, for no one was surprised; and a young fellow leaned across the aisle to me and said, “Why! you just bet He can!” His surprise that I should doubt, his bright face and confident tone, gave me hope that perhaps it might be so. I held to that hope with all my soul, and’—stretching up his arms, and with a quick glow in his face and a little break in his voice, ‘He hasn’t failed me yet; not once, not once!’

He stopped quite short, and I felt a good deal like making a fool of myself, for in those days I had not made up my mind about these things. Graeme,