XXIII
It was Jenny who first wakened in the house on the hill, for she slept lightly as a young mother does. And yet when she woke, sleep was not wholly out of her eyes and mind, and it seemed to her that it was morning, and that Sam, her good Sam, was up betimes in the kitchen. She heard the fine crackling, at first a mere crepitation, of the crawling flame, and felt comfortable as one does at the notion of the good creature fire, the greatest servant of man. Deep in the hearts of men lies the love of it, for fire has served them through the innumerable generations of their rise from those who knew it not. A million ancestors of each have sat by brave flames in dark woodlands and have warmed themselves and found comfort in all the storms of the open world. For the house is the fire, the covering of the fire, and the hearth is the great altar, where a daily sacrifice is made to the gods.
She fell asleep again.
And then she smelt smoke and roused herself suddenly and saw a strange light outside in the darkness. The fire flickered like a serpent's tongue, and she saw it, and her heart went cold. For the servant becomes a tyrant, and the god is oftentimes cruel to his people. She clutched the child, and with her other hand caught hold of George. She cried to him aloud, and even before he was awake he stood upon the floor, knowing that some enemy was at hand. And even then the red enemy looked in at the window and there was the tinkle of broken glass.
"Oh, this is Pete's work," he said. But he said it not aloud. "Get up, girl. Come, tenas," he cried. He opened the door and found the house full of smoke. Below, he heard the work of the fire. And the outer wall below the window was one flame.
"This is Pete's work," he said. And he said to himself—
"What of the Mill?"
Jenny clutched the baby to her bosom, and he slammed the door to. It was not the first time he had met fire and he understood it. He wetted a handkerchief and tied it over his own mouth. There were some who would have wondered at his swiftness, and the cool courage of him in so threatening a fight. He bound wet rags across the brave lifted mouth of Jenny, and the child cried as he did the same for him. Then he caught her in his arms and rushed the stairs, and as he ran he called aloud, "Sam, Sam!"
The smoke was pungent, acrid, suffocating, and the heat of the air already cracked the skin. Out of the smoke he saw licking tongues of flame, flame curious and avid, searching, strenuous, alive. One tongue licked at him and he smelt, among all the other odours of the fire, the smell of singed hair. He heard the crying of the child, its outraged mind working angrily. Jenny whimpered a little. Her hand was steel about him. He rushed an opaque veil of blinding smoke, interpenetrated by lightnings, and bull-headed burst in Sam's door. He heard the boy cry out. But they were saved, if it were not that Pete stood outside to kill those whom he had driven from their shelter. That might be; Quin knew it. And yet he could not go first. Sam caught his arm.
"Oh, oh, Mista Quin!" he cried, "oh, oh, velly dleadful, my much aflaid."
Sam had pluck enough, as he had more than once shown when some white young hoodlums of the town had small-ganged him. But when fire is the master many are not brave.
"Open the window," said Quin. Outside to the ground was a drop of twelve feet. But the ground was hard. Quin put Jenny down by the window and got a blanket from the boy's bed.
"Out you go first, Sam," he said.
But Sam, though not "blave" and "velly much aflaid," knew it was the right thing for the "Missus" to go first.
"Oh, no, Mista Quin, my no go first. Missus she go and litty chilo. My not too much aflaid."
He trembled like a leaf all the same.
"Get out of the window chop-chop," said Quin in a voice that Sam had only heard once before when he had dared to be insolent. He sprang to the window, and, clutching the blanket that Quin held, he slid to the ground.
"Now my catchee Missus," he said exultantly. And with the fire beneath the boards of the room, Quin had no choice. He tied a quilt round Jenny's waist and lowered her and the child till Sam could touch her. He let go, and sliding down the blanket, which he had made fast to the frame of Sam's bed, he, too, reached the ground safely. And people came running up the hill. Whether this was Pete's work or not they were safe. But their house was a torch, the flames soared above the gambrel of the roof.
Jenny sat upon a rock, clad only in her nightgown, with the quilt thrown about her shoulders. Her home was burning and all their beautiful things were destroyed. She could not cry, but her heart wept, and the child was her only comfort. She knew well enough that this was Pete's work, she felt it in her heart.
And a crowd gathered. There were many from the City: those whose work it is to put out fires, and some of the police. There was a fat saloon-keeper whom she knew by sight and the old boss of the Farmers' Home. With them were many Siwashes from Shack-Town: among them the wedger-off who had replaced Pete. She saw old Papp, the German from "California," and Chihuahua, with his beady eyes flashing, and his teeth all a-grin. With him came his klootchman, Annawillee, the one who always sang the song of the mournful one, also called Annawillee. Then there were Chinamen in wide flapping pyjamas, old Wong, the wise man, and Fan-tan and Sam Lung, and Quong. They made a circle about her and the fire, and chattered in Chinese, in Chinook, in Spanish, for now Spanish Joe, the handsome man, came up and palavered with Chihuahua. She felt their eyes upon her. She had "shem" that they should see her, for she was not Quin's wife, and his child cried upon her knees. She hid her bare feet under the nightgown. Sam stood by her. She saw Quin speak to the police, to the firemen. Any help was vain. Then Long Mac ran up the hill, as light as a wapiti on his feet. He said but a word and ran back. But it was a wise word, though too late.
"Send someone down to the Mill, Quin. If this is Pete, it won't satisfy him. I'll get a boat and go on the River."
"Do," said Quin. "I'll see this through and be with you in a minute."
But the swift minutes passed, and before they gave up all hope (though Quin never had hope) and before he could say what should be done with Jenny, someone cried out suddenly—
"The Mill, the Mill!"
As if they had been turned on their heels by some strange machinery the big crowd turned and saw a running light in the Mill. It was as if the crowd of workers danced with lamps: as if there were some Chinese Feast of Lanterns in its dark floors. Then the flickering, dancing lights coalesced and they saw flames flow out, and flow down and climb up.
"The Mill!" said Quin.
Bad enough to lose his house, his home, which now he loved, but to lose the Mill was a thousand times worse. The house was but a new thing and the Mill was old. Thousands of days he had watched the work and heard its song: not a board of it, not a rafter, not a stud or beam or scantling or shingle that wasn't his delight. It was part of himself, the thing wherewith he worked, the live muscles with which he toiled: his spirit extended to it: he ran it with his steam, with his belts, with his mind, his energy.
"Oh, my Mill!"
Barefoot as he was, being clad only in his shirt and trousers, he leapt down the hill and never felt his wounded feet. Jenny saw him go, saw the crowd break and waver, saw it turn and flood the lower hillside, moving down. Their lighted faces turned from her, she saw them run.
"Oh, Tchorch, oh, Tchorch!"
But George never heard her feeble cry in the torrent. He had forgotten her and the boy.
And when she could again see for her tears she was alone save for Sam, her faithful Sam, and Annawillee and Indian Annie, the last to climb the hill. Even Chihuahua had gone and all the Chinamen. She saw Wong departing last of all. The fire drew even the philosopher. She heard Annie speak to her.
"Ho, tenas Jenny, toketie Jenny, dis your man, mesachie Pete. Evelybody savvy Pete done um, Jenny. Oh, what peety toketie house mamook piah, all bu'n, all flame."
"Oho, hyu keely, hyu keely," moaned Annawillee, "pletty house mamook piah. Mamook nanitch you' papoosh, Jenny, let me see papoosh."
These were foul and filthy hags, and now Jenny knew it. She cried and Sam did not know what to do.
"Missus, you no cly," he said despairingly. But still she cried, and Annie sat down by her.
"Where Mista Quin klatawa? Ha, Moola mamook piah all same yo' toketie house, tenas. Now you got halo house, you come mine, Jenny."
And Annawillee lifted the quilt from the baby and saw it.
"Hyu toketie papoosh, hyu toketie, ha, I love papoosh, Jenny's papoosh."
"What I do, Sam?" moaned Jenny. The Mill was in a roar of flames. It lighted the town and the river and the white canneries across the wide red flood.
"Oh, you come down to sto'e," said Sam. Where else could she go but to the store? Why hadn't the big boss told him what to do? For everything outside the house Sam was as helpless as the very papoose. He hated and loathed the Siwashes and their klootchmen. They were dreadful, uncleanly people. It was his one great wonder in life that "Missus" was a Siwash klootchman.
"You come down to sto'e," he said.
"You come my house, Jenny," said Annie, who thought if she gave Jenny shelter she would get more dollars from Quin, who lately had refused her anything. "You come my house, tenas."
But Sam held her tight and helped her on the difficult path. Her feet were bare and so were his. Neither Annie nor Annawillee had mocassins on, the soles of their feet were as hard as horn.
They went down the hill slowly, and still the old hag said—
"You come my shack, tenas, bad for papoose to be out night."
Every stick and stone of the path was lighted for them. Jenny's heart was in ashes for the grief of "Tchorch," who so loved his Mill and his house. All her beautiful clothes were burnt. Perhaps Pete would kill him even now.
"Oh, where is Tchorch?" she cried as they came to the bottom of the hill. And the wavering crowd kept on saying where he was.
"The boss is on the river."
"Went in a boat, pardner——"
"Oh, but he was mad! I wouldn't be the Siwash——"
"I don't hanker none to be Quin if Pete gets him. Pete's a boy, ain't he? Solid ideas, by gosh——"
"See, there's the Planin' Mill goin' up the flume!"
"'Tis a mighty expensive fire, this. Eh, what?"
"Licks me Moolas don't burn mor' off'n, pard!"
"Well, we're out of a job, tilikums."
The crowd moved and swayed and moaned. They cried "Oh!" and "Ah!" and "See!" The Mill was hell. Old Dutchy sat on a pile of sawed lumber with his lighted lamp on his knees; the poor doddering fool trimmed the wick and cried. Jenny heard old Papp speak to him in German.
"Sei ruhig, alte dummkopf."
And Papp went on in English.
"Dain'd your vault, old shap, iv so be Pete wanded to purn ze Mill, he vould purn it all same. If I had him I vould braig him lige a sdick, so!"
There was no pity for the man who had spiked the logs. They would have hung him if they had had hold of him. They would have thrown him on the fire. Then the front of the Mill fell out. The crowd surged backwards, and Jenny was near thrown down. Old Papp fell against Sam, and both went down. Annie and Annawillee caught hold of Jenny and her papoose, and dragged her to their shack.
"That all light, tenas. You come. I give you a dlink, tenas. Here, Annawillee, you hold papoosh."
She snatched the baby from Jenny's weakening arms and Annawillee ran on ahead with him.
When Sam recovered his feet Jenny was gone.
"Oh, where my Missus, where my Missus?" roared Sam, blubbering.
"What's the infernal Chinaman kickin' up such a bobbery about?" asked the scornful crowd.