Castle Nowhere Part 10

'Kidnap him?'

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

They fastened their boat to the log-dock, and started ash.o.r.e. 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 sh.o.r.e, 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 pa.s.sed 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 pa.s.s 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 cla.s.s are much better and happier when well curbed.' It did not occur to him that possibly the evil tempers of men of the lower cla.s.s 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 G.o.d,' 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 sh.o.r.e.

'Come,' said Waring, from below.