Higgins Part 6

In the bunk-house, after supper, Higgins preaches. It is a solemn service: no minister of them all so punctilious as Higgins in respect to reverent conduct. The preacher is in earnest and single of purpose. The congregation is compelled to reverence. "Boys," says he, in cunning appeal, "this bunk-house is our church--the only church we've got."

No need to say more! And a queer church: a low, long hut, stifling and ill-smelling and unclean and infested, a row of double-decker bunks on either side, a great glowing stove in the middle, socks and Mackinaws steaming on the racks, boots put out to dry, and all dim-lit with lanterns. Half-clad, hairy men, and boys with young beards, lounge everywhere--stretched out on the benches, peering from the shadows of the bunks, squatted on the fire-wood, cross-legged on the floor near the preacher. Higgins rolls out a cask for a pulpit and covers it with a blanket. Then he takes off his coat and mops his brow.

Presently, hymn-book or Testament in hand, he is sitting on the pulpit.

"Not much light here," says he, "so I won't read to-night; but I'll _say_ the First Psalm. Are you all ready?"

Everybody is ready.

"All right. '_Blessed is the man that walketh not in the counsel of the unG.o.dly,_' boys, '_nor standeth in the way of sinners._'"

The door opens and a man awkwardly enters.

"Got any room back there for Bill, boys?" the preacher calls.

There seems to be room.

"I want to see you after service, Bill. You'll find a seat back there with the boys. '_For the Lord knoweth the way of the righteous; but the way of the unG.o.dly,_' gentlemen, '_shall perish._'"

There is a prayer, restrained, in the way of the preacher's church--a pet.i.tion terrible with earnestness. One wonders how a feeling G.o.d could turn a deaf ear to the beseeching eloquence of it! And the boys sing--l.u.s.tily, too--led by the stentorian preacher. An amazing incongruity: these seared, blasphemous barbarians bawling, _What a Friend I Have in Jesus!_

Enjoy it?

"Pilot," said one of them, in open meeting, once, with no irreverence whatsoever, "that's a d.a.m.ned fine toon! Why the h.e.l.l don't they have toons like that in the shows? Let's sing her again!"

"Sure!" said the preacher, not at all shocked; "let's sing her again!"

There is a sermon--composed on the forest roads from camp to camp: for on those long, white, cold, bl.u.s.tering roads Higgins either whistles his blithe way (like a boy) or fas.h.i.+ons his preaching. It is a searching, eloquent sermon: none other so exactly suited to environment and congregation--none other so simple and appealing and comprehensible.

There isn't a word of cant in it; there isn't a suggestion of the familiar evangelistic rant. Higgins has no time for cant (he says)--nor any faith in ranting. The sermon is all orthodox and significant and reasonable; it has tender wisdom, and it is sometimes terrible with naked truth. The phrasing? It is as homely and brutal as the language of the woods. It has no affectation of slang. The preacher's message is addressed with wondrous cunning to men in their own tongue: wherefore it could not be repeated before a polite congregation. Were the preacher to e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.e an oath (which he never would do)--were he to exclaim, "By G.o.d! boys, this is the only way of salvation!"--the solemnity of the occasion would not be disturbed by a single ripple.

"And what did the young man do?" he asked, concerning the Prodigal; "why, he packed his turkey and went off to blow his stake--_just like you!_" Afterward, when the poor Prodigal was penniless: "What about him _then_, boys? _You_ know. _I_ don't need to tell you. You learned all about it at Deer River. It was the husks and the hogs for him--_just like it is for you!_ It's up the river for you--and it's back to the woods for you--when they've cleaned you out at Deer River!" Once he said, in a great pa.s.sion of pity: "Boys, you're out here, floundering to your waists, picking diamonds from the snow of these forests, to glitter, not in pure places, but on the necks of the saloon-keepers' wives in Deer River!" There is applause when the Pilot strikes home. "That's d.a.m.ned true!" they shout. And there is many a tear shed (as I saw) by the young men in the shadows when, having spoken long and graciously of home, he asks: "When did you write to your mother last? You, back there--and you! Ah, boys, don't forget her!"

There was pause while the preacher leaned earnestly over the blanketed barrel.

"Write home to-night," he besought them.

"_She's--waiting--for--that--letter!_"

They listened.

XIV

THE SHOE ON THE OTHER FOOT

The Pilot is a fearless preacher--fearless of blame and violence--and he is the most downright and pugnacious of moral critics. He speaks in mighty wrath against the sins of the camps and the evil-doers of the towns--naming the thieves and gamblers by name and violently characterizing their ways: until it seems he must in the end be done to death in revenge. "Boys," said he, in a bunk-house denunciation, "that tin-horn gambler Jim Leach is back in Deer River from the West with a crooked game--just laying for you. I watched his game, boys, and I know what I'm talking about; _and you know I know!_" Proceeding: "You know that saloon-keeper Tom Jenkins? Of _course_ you do! Well, boys, the wife of Tom Jenkins nodded toward the camps the other day, and, 'Pshaw!' says she; 'what do I care about expense? My husband has a thousand men working for him in the woods!' She meant you, boys! A thousand of you--think of it!--working for the wife of a brute like Tom Jenkins." Again: "Boys, I'm just out from Deer River. I met ol'

Bill Morgan yesterday. 'h.e.l.lo, Bill!' says I; 'how's business?'

'Slow, Pilot,' says he; 'but I ain't worryin' none--it'll pick up when the boys come in with their stake in the spring.' There you have it! That's what you'll be up against, boys, G.o.d help you! when you go in with your stake--a gang of filthy thieves like Jim Leach and Tom Jenkins and Bill Morgan!" It takes courage to attack, in this frank way, the parasites of a lawless community, in which murder may be accomplished in secret, and perjury is as cheap as a gla.s.s of whiskey.

It takes courage, too, to denounce the influential paris.h.i.+oner.

"You grown-up men, here," Higgins complained to his congregation, "ought to give the young fellows a chance to live decent lives. Shame to you that you don't! You've lived in filth and blasphemy and whiskey so long that maybe you don't know any better; but I want to tell you--every one of you--that these boys don't want that sort of thing.

They remember their mothers and their sisters, and they want what's _clean!_ Now, you leave 'em alone. Give 'em a show to be decent. And I'm talking to _you_, Scotch Andrew"--with an angry thump of the pulpit and a swift belligerent advance--"and to _you_, Gin Thompson, sneaking back there in your bunk!"

"Oh, h.e.l.l!" said Gin Thompson.

The Pilot was instantly confronting the lazy-lying man. "Gin," said he, "you'll take that back!"

Gin laughed.

"Understand me?" the wrathful preacher shouted.

Gin Thompson understood. Very wisely--however unwillingly--he apologized.

"That's all right, Pilot," said he; "you know I didn't mean nothin'."

"Anyhow," the preacher muttered, returning to his pulpit and his sermon, "I'd rather preach than fight."

Not by any means all Higgins's sermons are of this nature; most are conventional enough, perhaps--but always vigorous and serviceable--and present the ancient Christian philosophy in an appealing and deeply reverent way. I recall, however, another downright and courageous display of dealing with the facts without gloves. It was especially fearless because the Pilot must have the permission of the proprietors before he may preach in the camps. It is related that a drunken logger--the proprietor of the camp--staggered into Higgins's service and sat down on the barrel which served for the pulpit. The preacher was discoursing on the duties of the employed to the employer. It tickled the drunken logger.

"Hit 'em again, Pilot!" he applauded. "It'll do 'em good."

Higgins pointed out the wrong worked the owners by the lumber-jacks'

common custom of "jumping camp."

"Give 'em h.e.l.l!" shouted the logger. "It'll do 'em good."

Higgins proceeded calmly to discuss the several evils of which the lumber-jacks may be accused in relation to their employers.

"You're all right, Pilot," the logger agreed, clapping the preacher on the back. "Hit the ---- rascals again! It'll do 'em good."

"And now, boys," Higgins continued, gently, "we come to the other side of the subject. You owe a lot to your employers, and I've told you frankly what your minister thinks about it. But what can be expected of you, anyhow? Who sets you a good example of fair dealing and decent living? Your employers? Look about you and see! What kind of an example do your employers set? Is it any wonder," he went on, in a breathless silence, "that you go wrong? Is it any wonder that you fail to consider those who fail to consider you? Is it any wonder that you are just exactly what you are, when the men to whom you ought to be able to look for better things are themselves filthy and drunken loafers?"

The logger was thunderstruck.

"And how d'ye like _that_, Mister Woods?" the preacher shouted, turning on the man, and shaking his fist in his face. "How d'ye like _that_? Does it do _you_ any good?"

The logger wouldn't tell.

"Let us pray!" said the indignant preacher.

Next morning the Pilot was summoned to the office. "You think it was rough on you, do you, Mr. Woods?" said he. "But I didn't tell the boys a thing that they didn't know already. And what's more," he continued, "I didn't tell them a thing that your own son doesn't know. You know just as well as I do what road _he's_ travelling; and you know just as well as I do what you are doing to help that boy along."