The King Of Beaver, and Beaver Lights Part 4

Then she heard a familiar voice, and knew that the old order of things was returning, while Beaver Island, like a dream, went silently down upon the waters.

Some years later, in the '50's, Emeline, sitting opposite her husband at the breakfast-table, heard him announce from the morning paper:

"Murder of King Strang, the Mormon Prophet of Beaver Island." All the details of the affair, even the track of the bullets which crashed into that golden head, were mercilessly printed. The reader, surprised by a sob, dropped his paper.

"What! Are you crying, Mrs. Arnold?"

"It was so cruel!" sobbed Emeline. "And Billy Wentworth, like a savage, helped to do it!"

"He had provocation, no doubt, though it is a horrid deed. Perhaps I owe the King of Beaver the tribute of a tear. He befogged me considerably the only time I ever met him."

"You see only his evil. But I see what he was to Mary French and the others." "His bereaved widows?" "The ones who believed in his best."

BEAVER LIGHTS

A magnificent fountain of flame, visible far out on the starlit lake, spurted from the north end of Beaver Island. It was the temple, in which the Mormon people had worshipped for the last time, sending sparks and illumined vapor to the zenith. The village of St. James was partly in ashes, and a blue pallor of smoke hung dimly over nearly every hill and hollow, for Gentile fishermen crazed with drink and power and long arrears of grievances had carried torch and axe from farm to farm. Until noon of that day all householding families had been driven to huddle with their cattle around the harbor dock and forced to make pens for the cattle of lumber which had been piled there for transportation.

Unresisting as sheep they let themselves be shipped on four small armed steamers sent by their enemies to carry them into exile. Not one of the twelve elders who had received the last instructions of their murdered king rose up to organize any defence. Scarcely a month had pa.s.sed since his wounding unto death, and his withdrawal, like Arthur, in the arms of weeping women to that spot in Wisconsin where he had found his sacred Voree plates or tables of the law. Scarcely two weeks had pa.s.sed since news came back of his burial there. And already the Mormon settlement was swept off Beaver Island.

Used to border warfare and to following their dominating prophet to victory, they yet seemed unable to strike a blow without him. Such non-resistance procured them nothing but contempt. They even submitted to being compelled to destroy a cairn raised over the grave of one considered a malefactor, carrying the heap stone by stone to throw into the lake, Gentiles standing over them like Egyptian masters.

Little waves ran in rows of light, washing against the point on the north side of the landlocked harbor. A primrose star was there struggling aloft at the top of a rough rock tower. It was the fish-oil flame of Beaver lamp, and the keeper sat on his doorsill at the bottom of the light-house with his wife beside him.

The lowing of cattle missing their usual evening tendance came across from the dock, a mournful accompaniment to the distant roaring of fire and falling of timbers.

"Do you realize, Ludlow," the young woman inquired, slipping her hand into her husband's, "that I am now the only Mormon on Beaver Island?"

"You never were a very good Mormon, Cecilia. You didn't like the breed any better than I did, though there were good people among them."

"Will they lose all their cattle, Ludlow?"

"The cattle are safe enough," he laughed. "The men that are doing this transporting will take the cattle. None of our Mormon friends will ever see a hoof from Beaver Island again."

"But it seems robbery to drive them off and seize their property."

"That's the way King Strang took Beaver from the Gentiles in the first place. Mormons and Gentiles can't live together."

"We can."

"I told you that you were a poor Mormon, Cecilia. And from first to last I opposed my family's entering the community. t.i.thes and meddling sent my father out of it a poor man. But I'm glad he went before this; and your people, too."

She drew a deep breath. "Oh yes! They're safe in Green Bay. I couldn't endure to have them on those steamers going down the lake to-night. What will become of the community, Ludlow?"

"G.o.d knows. They'll be landed at Chicago and turned adrift on the world.

I'm glad they're away from here. I've no cause to love them, but I was afraid they would be butchered like sheep. Your father and my father, if they had still been elders on the island, wouldn't have submitted, as these folks did, to abuse and exile and the loss of everything they had in the world. I can't understand it of some of them. There was Jim Baker, for instance; I'd have sworn he would fight."

"I can understand why he didn't. He hasn't taken any interest since his second marriage."

"Now, that was a nice piece of work! I always liked Jim the best of any of the young men until he did that. And what inducement was there in the woman?"

The light-house keeper's wife fired up. "What inducement there was for him ever to marry Rosanne I couldn't see. And I know Elizabeth Aiken loved him when we were girls together."

"And didn't Rosanne?"

"Oh--Rosanne! A roly-poly spoiled young one, that never will be a woman!

Elizabeth is n.o.ble."

"You're fond of Elizabeth because she was witness to our secret marriage when King Strang wouldn't let me have you. I liked Jim for the same reason. Do you mind how we four slipped one at a time up the back stairs in my father's house that night, while the young folks were dancing be-low?"

"I mind we picked Elizabeth because Rosanne would be sure to blab, even if she had to suffer herself for it. How scared the poor elder was!"

"We did him a good turn when we got him to marry us. He'd be on one of the steamers bound for nowhere, to-night, instead of snug at Green Bay, if we hadn't started him on the road to what King Strang called disaffection."

The light-house keeper jumped up and ran out on the point, his wife following him in nervous dread.

"What is the matter, Ludlow?"

Their feet crunched gravel and paused where ripples still ran in, endlessly bringing lines of dimmer and dimmer light. A rocking boat was tied to a stake. Anch.o.r.ed and bare-masted, farther out in the mouth of the bay, a fishing-smack tilted slightly in rhythmic motion. While they stood a touch of crimson replaced the sky light in the water, and great blots like blood soaking into the bay were reflected from the fire. The burning temple now seemed to rise a lofty tower of flame against the horizon. Figures could be seen pa.s.sing back and forth in front of it, and shouts of fishermen came down the peninsula. The King's printing-office where the _Northern Islander_ was once issued as a daily had smouldered down out of the way. It was the first place to which they had set torch.

"I thought I heard some one running up the sail on our sail-boat," said the light-house keeper. "No telling what these fellows may do. If they go to meddling with me in my little Government office, they'll find me as stubborn as the Mormons did."

"Oh, Ludlow, look at the tabernacle, like a big red-hot cheese-box on the high ground! Think of the coronation there on the first King's Day!"

The light-house keeper's wife was again in imagination a long-limbed girl of fifteen, crowding into the temple to witness such a ceremony as was celebrated on no other spot of the New World. The King of Beaver, in a crimson robe, walked the temple aisle, followed by his council, his twelve elders, and seventy ministers of the minor order. In the presence of a hushed mult.i.tude he was anointed, and a crown with a cl.u.s.ter of projecting stars was set on his golden head. Hails and shouts, music of marching singers and the strewing of flowers went before him into the leafy July woods. Thus King's Day was established and annually observed on the 8th of July. It began with burnt-offerings. The head of each family was required to bring a chicken. A heifer was killed and carefully cut up without breaking a bone; and, while the smoke of sacrifice arose, feasting and dancing began, and lasted until sunset.

Firstlings of flocks and the first-fruits of orchard and field were ordained the King's; and he also claimed one-tenth of each man's possessions. The Mosaic law was set up in Beaver Island, even to the stoning of rebellious children.

The smoke of a sacrificed people was now reeking on Beaver. This singular man's French ancestry--for he was descended from Henri de L'Estrange, who came to the New World with the Duke of York--doubtless gave him the pa.s.sion for picturesqueness and the spiritual grasp on his isolated kingdom which keeps him still a notable and unforgotten figure.

"It makes me feel bad to see so much destruction," the young man said to his wife; "though I offered to go with Billy Wentworth to shoot Strang if n.o.body else was willing. I knew I was marked, and sooner or later I would disappear if he continued to govern this island. But with all his faults he was a man. He could fight; and whip. He'd have sunk every steamer in the harbor to-day."

"It's heavy on my heart, Ludlow--it's dreadful! Neighbors and friends that we shall never see again!"

The young man caught his wife by the arm. They both heard the swift beat of footsteps flying down the peninsula. Cecilia drew in her breath and crowded against her husband. A figure came into view and identified itself, leaping in bisected draperies across an open s.p.a.ce to the light-house door.

"Why, Rosanne!" exclaimed the keeper's wife. She continued to say "Why, Rosanne! Why, Rosanne Baker!" after she had herself run into the house and lighted a candle.

She set the candle on the chimney. It showed her rock-built domicile, plain but dignified, like the hollow of a cavern, with blue china on the cupboard shelves and a spinning-wheel standing by the north wall. A corner staircase led to the second story of the tower, and on its lowest step the fugitive dropped down, weeping and panting. She was peculiarly dressed in the calico bloomers which the King of Beaver had latterly decreed for the women of his kingdom. Her trim legs and little feet, cased in strong shoes, appeared below the baggy trousers. The upper part of her person, her almond eyes, round curves and features were full of Oriental suggestions. Some sweet inmate of a harem might so have materialized, bruising her softness against the hard stair.

"Why, Rosanne Baker!" her hostess reiterated.

Cecilia did not wear bloomers. She stood erect in petticoats. "I thought you went on one of the boats!"

"I didn't," sobbed Rosanne. "When they were crowding us on I slipped among the lumber piles and hid. I've been hid all day, lying flat between boards--on top where they couldn't see me."