Chapter 2

McFarquhar was torn between grief over his friend's trouble and indignation at his weakness and folly. We rode up to Ould Michael's cabin. The "office" door was locked and the windows boarded up. In the garden all was a wild tangle of flowers and weeds. Nature was bravely doing her best, but she missed the friendly hand that in the past had directed her energies. The climbing rose covered with opening buds was here and there torn from the bare logs.

"Man, man!" cried McFarquhar, "this is a terrible change whatever."

We knocked at the side door and waited, but there was no answer. I pushed the door open and there, in the midst of disorder and dirt, sat Ould Michael. I could hardly believe it possible that in so short a time so great a change could come to a man. His hair hung in long grey locks about his ears, his face was unshaven, his dress dirty and slovenly and his whole appearance and attitude suggested ruin and despair. But the outward wreck was evidently only an index to the wreck of soul, that had gone on. Out of the dark-blue eyes there shone no inner light. The bright, brave, cheery old soldier was gone, and in his place the figure of disorder and despair. He looked up at our entering, then turned from us, shrinking, and put his hands to his face, swaying to and fro and groaning deeply.

McFarquhar had come prepared to adopt strong measures, but the sight of Ould Michael, besotted and broken, was more than he could stand.

"Michael, man!" he cried, amazement and grief in his voice. "Aw, Michael, man! What's this? What's this?"

He went to him and laid his big bony hand on Ould Michael's shoulder. At his words and touch the old man broke into sobbing, terrible to see.

"Whisht, man," said McFarquhar, as he might to a child, "whist, whist, lad! It will be well with you yet."

But Ould Michael could not be comforted, but sobbed on and on. A man's weeping has something terrible in it, but an old man's tears are hardest of all to bear. McFarquhar stood helpless for some moments; then, taking Ould Michael by the arm, he said:

"Come out of this, anyway! Come out!"

But it was long before Ould Michael would talk. He sat in silence while his friend discoursed to him about the folly of allowing Paddy to deceive him with bad whisky. Surely any man could tell the bad from the good.

"It is deplorable stuff altogether, and it will not be good for Paddy when I see him."

"Och!" burst out Ould Michael at last, "it is not the whisky at all, at all."

"Ay, that is a great part of it, whatever."

"Och! me hea-art is broke, me hea-art is broke," groaned Ould Michael.

"Hoots, man! is it for the p'stoffice? That was not much worth to any man."

But Ould Michael only shook his head. It was hopeless to try to make such a man appreciate his feelings. McFarquhar rambled on, making light of the whole affair. The loss could only be very trifling. A man could make much more out of anything else. Poor Ould Michael bore it as long as he could and then, rising to his feet, cried out:

"Howly mither av Moses! an' have ye no hea-art inside av ye at all, at all? 'Tis not the money; the money is dirt!"

Here McFarquhar strongly dissented. Ould Michael heeded him not, but poured out his bitterness and grief. "For twinty years and more did I folly the flag in all lands and in all climates, wid wounds all over me body, an' medals an' good conduct sthripes an'--an' all that; an' now, wid niver a word av complaint or explanashun, to be turned aff like a dog an' worse."

Then the matter-of-fact McFarquhar, unable to understand these sentimental considerations, but secretly delighted that he had got Ould Michael to unbosom himself, began to draw him.

"Not twenty years, Michael."

"Twenty-foive years it is, an' more, I'm tellin' ye," replied Ould Michael, "an' niver wance did the inimy see the back av me coat or the dust av me heels; an' to think----"

"How long was it, then, you were with Sir Colin?" continued McFarquhar, cunningly.

"Wid Sir Colin? Shure an' didn't I stay wid him all the way from Calcutta to Lucknow an' back? An' didn't I give thim faithful sarvice here for twelve years--the first man that iver handled the mail in the valley? An' here I am, like--like--any common man."

These were the sore spots in his heart. He was shamed before the people of the valleys in whose presence he had stood forth as the representative of a grateful sovereign. His Queen and his country--his glory and pride for all these years--had forgotten him and his years of service and had cast him aside as worthless; and now he was degraded to the ranks of a mere private citizen! No wonder he had hauled down his flag and then, having no interest in life, nothing was left him but Paddy Dougan and the relief of his bad whisky.--Against Jacob Wragge, too, who had supplanted him, his rage burned. He would have his heart's blood yet.

McFarquhar, as he listened, began to realize how deep was the wound his old friend had suffered; but all he could say was, "You will come out with me Michael, and a few weeks out with the dogs will put you right," but Ould Michael was immovable and McFarquhar, bidding me care for him and promising to return next week, rode off much depressed. Before the week was over, however, he was back again with great news and in a state of exaltation.

"The minister is coming," he announced.

"Minister?"

"Ay, he has been with me. The Rev. John Macleod" (or as he made it, "Magleod") "from Inverness--and he is the grand man! He has the gift."

I remembered that he was a highlander and knew well what he meant.

"Yes, yes," he continued with his strongest accent, "he has been with me, and very faithfully has he dealt with me. Oh! he is the man of God, and I hev not heard the likes of him for forty years and more."

I listened with wonder, as McFarquhar described the visit of the Rev. John Macleod to his home. I could easily imagine the close dealing between the minister and McFarquhar, who would give him all reverence and submission, but when I imagined the highland minister dealing faithfully with the Indian wife and mother and her boys I failed utterly.

"He could not make much of her," meaning his wife, "and the lads," said McFarquhar sadly, "but there it was that he came very close to myself; and indeed--indeed--my sins have found me out."

"What did is say to you? What sins of yours did he discover?" I asked, for McFarquhar was the most respectable man in all the valley.

"Oh did he not ask me about my family altar and my duties to my wife and children?"

There was no manner of doubt but Mr. Macleod had done some searching in McFarquhar's heart and had brought him under "deep conviction," as he said himself. And McFarquhar had great faith that the minister would do the same for Ould Michael and was indignant when I expressed my doubts.

"Man aliou" (alive), he cried, "he will make his fery bones to quake."

"I don't know that that will help him much," I replied. But McFarquhar only looked at me and shook his head pityingly.

On Saturday, sure enough, McFarquhar arrived with the minister, and a service for the day following was duly announced. We took care that Ould Michael should be in fit condition to be profited by the Rev. John Macleod's discourse. The service was held in the blacksmith's shop, the largest building available. The minister was a big, dark man with a massive head and a great, rolling voice which he used with tremendous effect in all the parts of his service. The psalm he sang mostly alone, which appeared to trouble him not at all. The scripture lesson he read with a rhythmic, solemn cadence that may have broken every rule of elocution, but was nevertheless most impressive. His prayer, during which McFarquhar stood, while all the rest sat, was a most extraordinary production. In a most leisurely fashion it pursued its course through a whole system of theology, with careful explanation at critical places, lest there should be any mistaking of his position. Then it proceeded to deal with all classes and condition of men, from the Queen downward. As to McFarquhar, it was easy to see from his face that the prayer was only another proof that the minister had "the gift," but to the others, who had never had McFarquhar's privilege, it was only a marvelous, though impressive performance. Before he closed, however, he remembered the people before him and, in simple, strong, heart-reaching words, he prayed for their salvation.

"Why, in Heaven's name," I said afterwards to McFarquhar, "didn't he begin his prayer where he ended? Does he think the Almighty isn't posted in theology?" But McFarquhar would only reply: "Ay, it was grand? He has the gift!"

The sermon was, as McFarquhar said, "terrible powerful." The text I forget, but it gave the opportunity for an elaborate proof of the universal depravity of the race and of their consequent condemnation. He had no great difficulty in establishing the first position to the satisfaction of his audience, and the effect produced was correspondingly slight; but when he came to describe the meaning and the consequences of condemnation, he grew terrible, indeed. His pictures were lurid in the extreme. No man before him but was greatly stirred up. Some began to move uneasily in their seats; some tried to assume indifference; some were openly enraged; but none shared McFarquhar's visible and solemn delight. Ould Michael's face showed nothing; but, after all was over, in answer to McFarquhar's enthusiastic exclamation he finally grunted out:

"A great sermon, is it? P'raps it was and p'raps it wasn't. It took him a long time to tell a man what he knew before."

"And what might that be?" asked McFarquhar.

"That he was goin' fast to the Divil."

This McFarquhar could not deny and so he fell into disappointed silence. He began to fear that the minister might possibly fail with Ould Michael, after all. I frankly acknowledged the same fear and tried to make him see that for men like Ould Michael, and the rest, preaching of that kind could do little good. With this position McFarquhar warmly disagreed, but as the week went by he had to confess that on Ould Michael the minister had no effect at all, for he kept out of his way and demoted himself to Paddy Dougan as far as we would allow him.

Then McFarquhar began to despair and to realize how desperate is the business of saving a man fairly on the way to destruction. But help came to us--"a mysterious dispensation of Providence," McFarquhar called it. It happened on the Queen's birthday, when Grand Bend, in excess of loyal fervor, was doing its best to get speedily and utterly drunk. In other days Ould Michael had gloried beyond all in the display of loyal spirit; but to-day he sat, dark and scowling, in Paddy Dougan's barroom. McFarquhar and I were standing outside the door keeping an eye, but not too apparently, upon Ould Michael's drinking.

A big German from the tie-camps, who had lived some years across the border, and not to his advantage, was holding forth in favor of liberty and against all tyrannous governments. As Paddy's whisky began to tell the German became specially abusive against Great Britain and the Queen. Protests came from all sides, till, losing his temper, the German gave utterance to a foul slander against Her Majesty's private life. In an instant Ould Michael was on his feet and at the bar.

"Dhrink all around!" he cried. The glares were filled and all stood waiting. "Gentlemen," said Ould Michael, in his best manner; "I give you Her Gracious Majesty the Queen, God bless her!" With wild yells the glasses were lifted high and the toast drunk with three times three. The German, meantime, stood with his glass untouched. When the cheers were over he said, with a sneer:

"Shentlemen, fill ub!" The order was obeyed with alacrity.

"I gif you, 'our noble selfs,' and for de Queen" (using a vile epithet), "she can look after her ownself." Quick as thought Ould Michael raised his glass and flung its contents into the German's face, saying, as he did so: "God save the Queen!" With a roar the German was at him, and before a hand could be raised to prevent it, Ould Michael was struck to the floor and most brutally kicked. By this time McFarquhar had tossed back the crowd right and left and, stooping down, lifted Ould Michael and carried him out into the air, saying in a husky voice:

"He is dead! He is dead!"

But in a moment the old man opened his eyes and said faintly:

"Niver a bit av it, God save----"

His eyes closed again and he became unconscious. They gave him brandy and he began to revive. Then McFarquhar rose and looked round for the German. His hair was fairly bristling round his head; his breath came in short gasps and his little eyes were blood-shot with fury.

"You have smitten an old man and helpless," he panted, "and you ought to be destroyed from the face of the earth; but I will not smite you as I would a man, but as I would a wasp."

He swung his long arm like a flail and, with his open hand, smote the German on the side of the head. It was a terrific blow; under it the German fell to the earth with a thud. McFarquhar waited a few moments while the German rose, slowly spitting out broken teeth and blood.

"Will you now behave yourself," said McFarquhar, moving toward him.

"Yes, yes, it is enough," said his antagonist hurriedly and went into the saloon.

We carried Ould Michael to his cabin and laid him on his bed. He was suffering dreadfully from some inward wound, but he uttered not a word of complaint. After he had lain still for some time he looked at McFarquhar.

"What is it, lad?" asked McFarquhar.

"The flag," whispered poor Ould Michael.

"The flag? Do you want the flag?"

He shook his head slowly, still looking beseechingly at his friend. All at once it came to me.

"You want the flag hauled up, Michael?" I said.

He smiled and eagerly looked towards me.

"I'll run it up at once," I said.

He moved his hand. I came to him and bending over him caught the words "God save----"

"All right," I answered, "I shall give it all honor."

He smiled again, closed his eyes and a look of great peace came upon his face. His quarrel with his Queen and country was made up and all the bitterness was gone from his heart. After an examination as full as I could make, I came to the conclusion that there were three ribs broken and an injury, more or less serious, to the lungs; but how serious, I could not tell. McFarquhar established himself in Ould Michael's cabin and nursed him day and night. He was very anxious that the minister should see Ould Michael and, when the day came for Mr. Macleod's service in Grand Bend, I brought him to Ould Michael's cabin, giving him the whole story on the way. His highland loyalty was stirred.

"Noble fellow," he said, warmly, "it is a pity he is a Romanist; a sore pity."

His visit to Ould Michael was not a success. Even McFarquhar had to confess that somehow his expounding of the way of salvation to Ould Michael and his prayers, fervent though they were, did not appeal to the old soldier; the matter confused and worried him. But however much he failed with Ould Michael there was no manner of doubt that he was succeeding with McFarquhar. Long and earnest were their talks and, after every "season," McFarquhar came forth more deeply impressed with the grand powers of the minister. He Had already established the "family altar" in his home and was making some slow progress in instructing his wife and children in "the doctrine of grace," but as Ould Michael began to grow stronger, McFarquhar's anxiety about _his state_ grew deeper. Again and again he had the minister in to him, but Ould Michael remained unmoved; indeed, he could hardly see what the minister would be at.

One evening as we three were sitting in Ould Michael's main room, McFarquhar ventured to express his surprise at Ould Michael's continued "darkness" as he said:

"My friend," said the minister, solemnly, "it has been given me that you are the man to lead him into the light."

"God pity me!" exclaimed McFarquhar. "That I could lead any man!"

"And more," said the minister, in deepening tones, "it is borne in upon me that his blood will be upon you."

McFarquhar's look of horror and fear was pitiable and his voice rose in an agony of appeal.

"God be merciful to me! you will not be saying such a word as that."

"Fear not," replied the minister, "he will be given to you for a jewel in your crown."

McFarquhar was deeply impressed.

"How can this thing be?" he inquired in despair.

"You are his friend!" The minister's voice rose and fell in solemn rhythm. "You are strong; he is weak. You will need to put away from you all that causeth your brother to offend, and so you will lead him into the light."

The minister's face was that of a man seeing visions and McFarquhar, deeply moved, bowed his head and listened in silence. After a time he said, hesitatingly:

"And Ould Michael has his weakness and he will be drinking Paddy Dougan's bad whisky; but if he would only keep to the Company's good whisky----"

"Man," interrupted the minister, simply, "don't you know it is the good whisky that kills, for it is the good whisky that makes men love it."

McFarquhar gazed at him in amazement.

"The good whisky!"

"Ay," said the minister, firmly, "and indeed there is no good whisky for drinking."

McFarquhar rose and from a small cupboard brought back a bottle of the Hudson Bay Company's brand. "There," he said, pouring out a glass, "you will not be saying there is no good whisky."

The minister lifted the glass and smelled it.

"Try it," said McFarquhar in triumph.

The minister put it to his lips.

"Ay," he said, "I know it well! It is the best, but it is also the worst. For this men have lost their souls. There is no good whisky for _drinking_, I'm saying."

"And what for, then?" asked McFarquhar faintly.

"Oh, it has its place as a medicine or a lotion."

"A lotion," gasped McFarquhar.

"Yes, in case of sprains--a sprained ankle, for instance."

"A lotion!" gasped McFarquhar; "and would you be using the good whisky to wash your feet with?"

The minister smiled; but becoming immediately grave, he answered: "Mr. McFarquhar, how long have you been in the habit of taking whisky?"

"Fifty years," said McFarquhar promptly.

"And how many times have you given the bottle to your friend?"

"Indeed, I cannot say," said McFarquhar; "but it has never hurt him whatever."

"Wait a bit. Do you think that perhaps if Michael had never got the good whisky from his good friends he might not now be where he is?"

McFarquhar was silent. The minister rose to go.

"Mr. McFarquhar, the Lord has a word for you" (McFarquhar rose and stood as he always stood in church), "and it is this: 'We, then, that are strong, ought to bear the infirmities of the weak, and not to please ourselves.' It is not given to me to deliver Michael from the bondage of death, but to you it is given, and of you He will demand, 'Where is Abel, thy Brother?'"

The minister's last words rolled forth like words of doom.

"Man, it is terrible!" said McFarquhar to me as the minister disappeared down the slope; but he never thought of rejecting the burden of responsibility laid upon him. That he had helped Ould Michael down he would hardly acknowledge, but the minister's message bore in upon him heavily. "Where is Abel, thy brother?" he kept saying to himself. Then he took up the bottle and, holding it up to the light, he said with great deliberation:

"There will be no more of you whatever!"

From that time forth McFarquhar labored with Ould Michael with a patience and a tact that amazed me. He did not try to instill theology into the old man's mind, but he read to him constantly the gospel stories and followed his reading with prayer--always in Gaelic, however, for with this Ould Michael found no fault as to him it was no new thing to hear prayers in a foreign tongue. But one day McFarquhar ventured a step in advance.

"Michael," he said timidly, "you will need to be prayin' for yourself."

"Shure an' don't I inthrate the Blessed Virgin to be doin' that same for me?"

McFarquhar had learned to be very patient with his "Romish errors," so he only replied:

"Ay, but you must take words upon your own lips," he said, earnestly.

"An' how can I, then, for niver a word do I know?"

Then McFarquhar fell into great distress and looked at me imploringly. I rose and went into the next room, closing the door behind me. Then, though I tried to make a noise with the chairs, there rose the sound of McFarquhar's voice; but not with the cadence of the Gaelic prayer. He had no gift in the English language, he said; but evidently Ould Michael thought otherwise, for he cared no more for Gaelic prayers.

By degrees McFarquhar began to hope that Ould Michael would come to the light, but there was a terrible lack in the old soldier of "conviction of sin." One day, however, in his reading he came to the words, "the Captain of our Salvation."

"Captain, did ye say?" said Ould Michael.

"Ay, Captain!" said McFarquhar, surprised at the old man's eager face.

"And what's his rigimint?"

Then McFarquhar, who had grown quick in following Ould Michael's thoughts, read one by one all the words that picture the Christian life as a warfare, ending up with that grand outburst of that noblest of Christian soldiers, "I have fought the fight, I have kept the faith." The splendid loyalty of it appealed to Ould Michael.

"McFarquhar," he said with quivering voice, "I don't understand much that ye've been sayin' to me, but if the war is still goin' on, an' if he's afther recruits any more bedad it's mesilf wud like to join."

McFarquhar was now at home; vividly he set before Ould Michael the warfare appointed unto men against the world, the flesh and the Devil; and then, with a quick turn, he said:

"An' He is calling to all true men, 'Follow me!'"

"An' wud He have the like av me?" asked Ould Michael, doubtfully.

"Ay, that He would and set you some fightin'."

"Then," said Ould Michael, "I'm wid Him." And no soldier in that warfare ever donned the uniform with simpler faith or wore it with truer heart than did Ould Michael.

Meantime I had, through political friends, set things in motion at Ottawa for the reinstating of Ould Michael in his position as postmaster at Grand Bend, and this, backed up by a petition, which through McFarquhar's efforts bore the name of every old-timer in the valleys, brought about the desired end. So one bright day, when Ould Michael was sunning himself on his porch, the stage drove up to his door and, as in the old days, dropped the mail-bag. Ould Michael stood up and, waving his hand to the driver, said:

"Shure, ye've made a mistake; an' I'm not blamin' ye."

"Not much," said the driver. "I always bring my mail to the postmaster."

"Hurrah!" I sung out. "God save the Queen!"

The little crowd that had gathered round took up my cheer.

"What do ye mean, byes?" said Ould Michael, weakly.

"It means," said McFarquhar, "that if you have the strength you must look after your mail as the postmaster should."

There was a joyous five minutes of congratulation; then the precession formed as before and, led by Ould Michael, marched into the old cabin. With trembling fingers Ould Michael cut the strings and selected his letter--

"But there'll be no more celebration, byes," he said, nor was there.

[Transcriber's Notes:

Standardized punctuation. Left one instance of clasp-knife and one of clasp knife. Page 10: Changed tell to tall. Page 29: Changed extarordinary to extraordinary.]

End of Project Gutenberg's Michael McGrath, Postmaster, by Ralph Connor