CHAPTER VII
A SHIP WITHOUT A RUDDER
I
If I were a painter I should make three pictures. For the painting of Life I should dip my brushes only in sunlight and starlight. That it contrast with the darkness his figure should stand radiant. For the painting of Hope the sunrise should be my palette, and robed in splendors of the sky, triumphant he should ride an unstable sea of glory. But for the painting of Memory, when I had used up all the sunset, I should pray God lend me a pot of glamour.
It is that glamour which allays the burning pain of memory, the fierce regret, the anger, shame, remorse. The stark event, the odious consequence, the bitter aftermath are all, as one looks back, arrayed in lovely hues of distance, and a sweet magic torn from the veil of time. So I recall that last year of my service in the mounted police; my soul which outlived defeat becomes victorious. He who stumbles and falls not, only mends his pace.
First I must speak of Sam, the young superintendent commanding D, an Irish-Canadian gentleman of a service family, and Regimental No. 1 of the mounted police. Because he was a born soldier, a record-breaking horseman, a great scout master and an incomparable leader, the untameable outlaws of the force were sent to him for treatment. They feared him, as they feared death, ate out of his hand, and made his division the crack troop of the outfit. He would carouse with his troopers all night, and punish us in the morning for being drunk, would drill us till we smashed, punish us without mercy and prove our best friend when we were in trouble. We loved and hated him fanatically, and like inspired fanatics made a crusade of our duties. The troop was just as brilliant as its leader.
In 1887, Chief Isadore and his Kootenay tribe were restive, so the province of British Columbia asked the Dominion government for help, and our troop was sent across the Crow's Nest Pass of the Rocky Mountains. Our base camp was the site of Fort Steele on Wild Horse Creek.
Now an English curate came to pass, and grieved at our spiritual destitution proposed an open air service. So Sam, being by his blood Anglican, Royalist and a soldier, ordered a church parade. Whereupon some of us became Roman Catholic, others found that their duties forbade attendance, and the rest of the troop went sick. Hence, a proclamation that at the sound of the bugle, cooks and Catholics, sick, lame or lazy should attend Sam's church parade on pain of death. Sam had his back up. Also the troop had its back up and in mass meeting resolved that any son of a sea cook presuming to sing, respond or contribute at a compulsory church parade should afterward be drowned. The service was therefore a duet between Sam and the curate without any sound from the chorus. Afterward Sam preached, announcing a second church parade next Sunday and hinting at setting up drills which would make the dearly beloved brethren sweat blood.
That afternoon at the bathing place we tried Beef Hardy by court-martial for contributing to the curate's offertory. He proved that he was only a civilian interpreter attached, and that his offering was a button. We had to let him off, but the whole troop yearned for somebody to drown.
"Brethren," said I. "Sinners! When that kind gentleman saved our souls this morning, it was borne in upon me what an abandoned parcel of Gadarene swine you all are—except me. You forget that our Sam is Smoothbore, the father of many children."