The Thorogood Family, R. M. Ballantyne [ebook reader library .txt] 📗

which was displayed the gold medal of the Royal National Lifeboat Institution.

“You might be sure of that, mother, seeing that we had promised,” said Dick, the blithe and hearty man-of-war’s man, as he printed a kiss on his mother’s cheek that might have been heard, as he truly said, “from the main truck to the keelson.” At the same time bushy-browed Harry, with the blue coat and brass epaulettes of the fire-brigade, was paying a similar tribute of affection to his sister, while fiery Bob,—the old uniform on his back and the Victoria Cross on his breast,—seized his father’s hand in both of his with a grip that quite satisfied that son of Vulcan, despite the absence of two of the fingers.

They were all deep-chested, strong-voiced men in the prime of life; and what a noise they did make, to be sure!

“You’re not too soon, boys,” said the smith; “old Moll has been quite anxious about a mysterious something in the big pot there.”

“Let me help you to take it off the fire, mother,” said the gallant tar, stepping forward.

“Nay, that’s my duty,” cried Harry, leaping to the front, and seizing the pot, which he dragged from the flames with professional ability.

When the something was displayed, it was found to be a gorgeous meat-pudding of the most tempting character—round and heavy like a cannon-ball. Of course it did not flourish alone. Old Moll had been mysteriously engaged the greater part of that day over the fire, and the result was a feast worthy, as her husband said, “of the King of the Cannibal Islands.”

“Talking of Cannibal Islands,” said Dick, the sailor, during a pause in the feast, “you’ve no idea what a glorious place that Pacific Ocean is, with its coral islands, palm-groves, and sunshine. It would be just the place to make you well again, Molly. You’d grow fat in a month.”

“Ha; get fat, would she,” growled Bob, the soldier, “so as to be ready for the first nigger-chief that took a fancy to have her cooked for supper—eh? Never fear, Molly, we won’t let you go to the Cannibal Islands. Give us another cut o’ that cannon-ball, mother. It’s better eating than those I’ve been used to see skipping over the battlefield.”

“But they’re not all Cannibal Islands, man,” returned Dick; “why, wherever the missionaries go, there the niggers get to be as well-behaved as you are. D’you know, Molly, I’ve really been thinking of cutting the service, and emigrating somewhere, if you and Fred would go with me.”

“It would be charming!” replied Molly, with a sweet though languid smile. “We’d live in a wooden hut, roofed with palm-leaves, and while you and Fred were away hunting for dinner, I would milk the buffaloes, and boil the cocoa-nuts!”

“Ah, Molly,” said Tom, the Coastguardsman, stroking his bushy beard, “the same idea has been running in my head, as well as in Dick’s, ever since we got that letter from Jim, telling us of the beauty of his new home, and urging us all to emigrate. I’ve more than half a mind to join him out there, if you and the old folk will consent to go.”

“You’re not serious, are you, Tom?” asked Harry, the fireman, laying down his knife and fork.

“Indeed I am.”

“Well, you might do worse. I would join you myself, if there were only houses enough to insure a fire or two every month.”

“Why, man,” said Fred Harper, “in these lands the whole forest goes on fire sometimes—surely that would suffice to keep your spirits up and your heart warm.”

“Let’s have a look at Jim’s last epistle, mother,” said Dick, when the feast was nearly over, and fragrant coffee smoked upon the board, (for you know the Thorogood Family were total abstainers), “and let Fred read it aloud. He’s by far the best reader amongst us.”

“Well, that’s not sayin’ much for him,” remarked the fireman, with a sly glance at his sister.

“Your lamp is not as powerful as it might be, mother,” said Fred, drawing his chair nearer to that of the fair invalid, as he unfolded the letter. “Turn your eyes this way, Molly,—there, keep ’em steady on the page; I can see now!”

“Eagle’s Nest, Rocky Mountain Slopes, 5th October 18—,” began Fred. “Darling Mother,—You’ve no idea what a charming place God has given me here, with plenty of work to do of the most congenial kind. I have only an opportunity for a short letter this time, because the postboy has arrived unexpectedly, and won’t wait. Postboy! You would smile at that word if you saw him. He’s a six-foot man in leather, with a big beard, and a rifle and tomahawk. He was attacked by Indians on the way over the mountains, but escaped, and he attacked a grizzly bear afterwards which didn’t escape—but I must not waste time on him, Well, I must devote all my letter this post to urging you to come out. This is a splendid country for big, strong, hearty, willing men like father and my brothers. Of course it is no better than other countries—rather worse—for weak men, either in mind or body. Idlers go to the wall here as elsewhere; but for men willing and able to work—ready to turn their hands to anything—it is a splendid opening. For myself—I feel that my Heavenly Father has sent me here because there is work for me to do, and a climate which will give me health and strength to do it. My health is better now than it has ever been mince the day of that fall which damaged my constitution so much as to render me one of the confirmed cripples of the earth. But it was a blessed fall, nevertheless. I was cast down in order that I might be lifted up. You would smile, mother,—perhaps you’d laugh—if you saw me at my work. I’m a Jack-of-all-trades. Among other things I’m a farmer, a gardener, a carpenter, a schoolmaster, a shoemaker, and a missionary! The last, you know, I consider my real calling. The others are but secondary matters, assumed in the spirit of Paul the tent-maker. You and dear Molly would rejoice with me if you saw my Bible Class on week-days, and my congregation on Sundays. It is a strange congregation to whom I have been sent to tell the old old story of Jesus and His love. There are farmers, miners, hunters, even painted savages among them. My church is usually a barn—sometimes a tent—often the open air. There are no denominations here, so that I belong to none. Only two sects exist—believers and unbelievers. But the place is growing fast. Doubtless there will be great changes ere long. Meanwhile it is my happy duty and privilege to scatter seed in the wilderness.

“Now, I urge you to come, because there is health for Molly to be found on these sunny slopes of this grand Backbone of America. That is my strongest point. If that does not move you, nothing else will! One glance from the windows of my wooden house—this Eagle’s Nest on the Rocky Mountain Slopes—would be sufficient to begin the work of convalescence. Woods, dells, knolls, hills, plains, prairies, lakes, streams—with the blue mountains in the far, far distance. Oh! if I were a poet, what a flight I would make into the realms of—of—well, you understand me! I have no time for more. The big-bearded postboy is growing impatient. Only this much will I add,—do, do come, if you love me. My kindest love to you all. May God guide you in this matter.—Your affectionate son, Jim.

“P.S.—One of the members of my congregation is a celebrated hunter named Reuben Dale. His wife is also one of my flock, and so is his friend Jacob Strang. The manner in which Reuben got married is so curious that I have amused myself by writing an account of it for mother. I enclose it.”

“Read the story aloud, Fred,” said Molly. “What Jim thought interesting must be well worth reading.”

Thus urged, Fred took the manuscript and read as follows:—

The Hunter’s Wedding. A Story of the Rocky Mountains.

On the summit of a green knoll, in one of those beautiful valleys which open from the prairies—like inviting portals—into the dark recesses of the Rocky Mountains, there stands, or stood not long ago, a small blockhouse surrounded by a wooden palisade.

Although useless as a protection from artillery, this building was found to be a sufficient defence against the bullets and arrows of the red men of North America, and its owner, Kenneth MacFearsome, a fiery Scotch Highlander, had, up to the date on which our story opens, esteemed it a convenient and safe place for trade with the warlike savages who roamed, fought, and hunted in the regions around it. Some people, referring to its peaceful purposes, called it MacFearsome’s trading post. Others, having regard to its military aspect, styled it Mac’s Fort.

Reuben Dale stood at the front gate of the Fort conversing with a pretty, dark-haired, bright-faced girl of eighteen years or thereabouts: Reuben himself being twenty-eight, and as strapping a hunter of the Rocky Mountains as ever outwitted a redskin or circumvented a grizzly bear. But Reuben was naturally shy. He had not the courage of a rabbit when it came to making love.

“Loo,” said Reuben, resting his hand on the muzzle of his long rifle and his chin on his hands, as he gazed earnestly down into the quiet, soft little face at his elbow.

“Well, Reuben,” said Loo, keeping her eyes prudently fixed on the ground lest they should betray her.

The conversation stopped short at this interesting point, and was not resumed. Indeed, it was effectually checked by the sudden appearance of The MacFearsome.

“What, have ye not managed it yet, Reuben?” said the Highlander, as his daughter tripped quickly away.

“Not yet,” said the hunter despondingly.

“Man, you’re not worth a gunflint,” returned MacFearsome, with a twinkling glance from under his bushy grey eyebrows; “if ye had not saved Loo’s life twice, and mine three times, I’d scorn to let you wed her. But you’ll have to settle it right off, for the parson won’t stop another day. He counted on spendin’ only one day here, on his way to the conference, and he has been two days already. You know it’ll take him all his time to get to Beaver Creek by the tenth.”

“But I’ll mount him on my best buffalo-runner and guide him myself by a short cut,” said the hunter, “so that he shall still be in good time for the circumference, and—”

“The conference, Reuben; don’t misuse the English language. But it’s of no use, I tell you. He won’t stop another day, so you must have it settled right off to-day, for it shall never be said that a MacFearsome was married without the benefit of the clergy.”

“Well, I’ll do it—slick off;” said the hunter, shouldering his rifle, and striding away in the direction of a coppice into which he had observed Loo disappear, with the air of a man who meant to pursue and kill a dangerous creature.

We will not do Reuben Dale the injustice to lift the curtain at this critical point in his history. Suffice it to say that he went into that coppice pale and came out red—so red that his handsome sunburned countenance seemed on the point of catching fire. There was a pleased expression on it, however, which was eminently suggestive.

He went straight to a wigwam which stood near the fort, lifted the skin door, entered, and sat down beside the fire opposite to a hunter not unlike himself. The man was as tall and strong, though not quite so good-looking. He was at the time smoking one of those tomahawks which some Indians have made with pipe bowls in their heads, the handles serving for stems, so that, when not employed in splitting skulls, they may be used for damaging stomachs—i.e. for smoking tobacco!

“I’ve done it, Jacob Strang,” said Reuben, with a grave nod, as he slowly