Kabanata Kabanata 12 · DAN'S CHRISTMAS

Chapter 12. DAN'S CHRISTMAS

Where was Dan? In prison. Alas for Mrs Jo! how her heart would have

ached if she had known that while old Plum shone with Christmas cheer

her boy sat alone in his cell, trying to read the little book she

gave him, with eyes dimmed now and then by the hot tears no physical

suffering had ever wrung from him, and longing with a homesick heart for

all that he had lost.

Yes, Dan was in prison; but no cry for help from him as he faced the

terrible strait he was in with the dumb despair of an Indian at the

stake; for his own bosom sin had brought him there, and this was to

be the bitter lesson that tamed the lawless spirit and taught him

self-control.

The story of his downfall is soon told; for it came, as so often

happens, just when he felt unusually full of high hopes, good

resolutions, and dreams of a better life. On his journey he met a

pleasant young fellow, and naturally felt an interest in him, as

Blair was on his way to join his elder brothers on a ranch in Kansas.

Card-playing was going on in the smoking-car, and the lad--for he was

barely twenty--tired with the long journey, beguiled the way with such

partners as appeared, being full of spirits, and a little intoxicated

with the freedom of the West. Dan, true to his promise, would not join,

but watched with intense interest the games that went on, and soon made

up his mind that two of the men were sharpers anxious to fleece the boy,

who had imprudently displayed a well-filled pocket-book. Dan always had

a soft spot in his heart for any younger, weaker creature whom he met,

and something about the lad reminded him of Teddy; so he kept an eye on

Blair, and warned him against his new friends.

Vainly, of course; for when all stopped overnight in one of the great

cities, Dan missed the boy from the hotel whither he had taken him

for safe-keeping; and learning who had come for him, went to find him,

calling himself a fool for his pains, yet unable to leave the confiding

boy to the dangers that surrounded him.

He found him gambling in a low place with the men, who were bound to

have his money; and by the look of relief on Blair's anxious face when

he saw him Dan knew without words that things were going badly with him,

and he saw the peril too late.

'I can't come yet--I've lost; it's not my money; I must get it back, or

I dare not face my brothers,' whispered the poor lad, when Dan begged

him to get away without further loss. Shame and fear made him desperate;

and he played on, sure that he could recover the money confided to

his care. Seeing Dan's resolute face, keen eye, and travelled air, the

sharpers were wary, played fair, and let the boy win a little; but they

had no mind to give up their prey, and finding that Dan stood sentinel

at the boy's back, an ominous glance was exchanged between them, which

meant:

'We must get this fellow out of the way.'

Dan saw it, and was on his guard; for he and Blair were strangers, evil

deeds are easily done in such places, and no tales told. But he would

not desert the boy, and still kept watch of every card till he plainly

detected false play, and boldly said so. High words passed, Dan's

indignation overcame his prudence; and when the cheat refused to restore

his plunder with insulting words and drawn pistol, Dan's hot temper

flashed out, and he knocked the man down with a blow that sent him

crashing head first against a stove, to roll senseless and bleeding to

the floor. A wild scene followed, but in the midst of it Dan whispered

to the boy: 'Get away, and hold your tongue. Don't mind me.'

Frightened and bewildered, Blair quitted the city at once, leaving Dan

to pass the night in the lock-up, and a few days later to stand in court

charged with manslaughter; for the man was dead. Dan had no friends, and

having once briefly told the story, held his peace, anxious to keep all

knowledge of this sad affair from those at home. He even concealed his

name--giving that of David Kent, as he had done several times before in

emergencies. It was all over very soon; but as there were extenuating

circumstances his sentence was a year in prison, with hard labour.

Dazed by the rapidity with which this horrible change in his life came

upon him, Dan did not fully realize it till the iron door clanged behind

him and he sat alone in a cell as narrow, cold, and silent as a tomb. He

knew that a word would bring Mr Laurie to help and comfort him; but he

could not bear to tell of this disgrace, or see the sorrow and the shame

it would cause the friends who hoped so much for him.

'No,' he said, clenching his fist, 'I'll let them think me dead first.

I shall be if I am kept here long'; and he sprang up to pace the stone

floor like a caged lion, with a turmoil of wrath and grief, rebellion

and remorse, seething in heart and brain, till he felt as if he should

go mad and beat upon the walls that shut him away from the liberty which

was his life. For days he suffered terribly, then worn out, sank into a

black melancholy sadder to see than his excitement.

The warden of this prison was a rough man who had won the ill will of

all by unnecessary harshness, but the chaplain was full of sympathy, and

did his hard duty faithfully and tenderly. He laboured with poor Dan,

but seemed to make no impression, and was forced to wait till work had

soothed the excited nerves and captivity tamed the proud spirit that

would suffer but not complain.

Dan was put in the brush-shop, and feeling that activity was his only

salvation, worked with a feverish energy that soon won the approval of

the master and the envy of less skilful mates. Day after day he sat in

his place, watched by an armed overseer, forbidden any but necessary

words, no intercourse with the men beside him, no change but from cell

to shop, no exercise but the dreary marches to and fro, each man's hand

on the other's shoulder keeping step with the dreary tramp so different

from the ringing tread of soldiers. Silent, gaunt, and grim, Dan did his

daily task, ate his bitter bread, and obeyed commands with a rebellious

flash of the eye, that made the warden say:

'That's a dangerous man. Watch him. He'll break out some day.'

There were others more dangerous than he, because older in crime

and ready for any desperate outbreak to change the monotony of long

sentences. These men soon divined Dan's mood, and in the mysterious way

convicts invent, managed to convey to him before a month was over

that plans were being made for a mutiny at the first opportunity.

Thanksgiving Day was one of the few chances for them to speak together

as they enjoyed an hour of freedom in the prison yard. Then all would

be settled and the rash attempt made if possible, probably to end in

bloodshed and defeat for most, but liberty for a few. Dan had already

planned his own escape and bided his time, growing more and more moody,

fierce, and rebellious, as loss of liberty wore upon soul and body; for

this sudden change from his free, healthy life to such a narrow, gloomy,

and miserable one, could not but have a terrible effect upon one of

Dan's temperament and age.

He brooded over his ruined life, gave up all his happy hopes and plans,

felt that he could never face dear old Plumfield again, or touch those

friendly hands, with the stain of blood upon his own. He did not care

for the wretched man whom he had killed, for such a life was better

ended, he thought; but the disgrace of prison would never be wiped out

of his memory, though the cropped hair would grow again, the grey suit

easily be replaced, and the bolts and bars left far behind.

'It's all over with me; I've spoilt my life, now let it go. I'll give up

the fight and get what pleasure I can anywhere, anyhow. They shall think

me dead and so still care for me, but never know what I am. Poor Mother

Bhaer! she tried to help me, but it's no use; the firebrand can't be

saved.'

And dropping his head in his hands as he sat on his low bed, Dan would

mourn over all he had lost in tearless misery, till merciful sleep would

comfort him with dreams of the happy days when the boys played together,

or those still later and happier ones when all smiled on him, and

Plumfield seemed to have gained a new and curious charm.

There was one poor fellow in Dan's shop whose fate was harder than his,

for his sentence expired in the spring, but there was little hope of his

living till that time; and the coldest-hearted man pitied poor Mason as

he sat coughing his life away in that close place and counting the weary

days yet to pass before he could see his wife and little child again.

There was some hope that he might be pardoned out, but he had no friends

to bestir themselves in the matter, and it was evident that the great

Judge's pardon would soon end his patient pain for ever.

Dan pitied him more than he dared to show, and this one tender emotion

in that dark time was like the little flower that sprung up between the

stones of the prison yard and saved the captive from despair, in the

beautiful old story. Dan helped Mason with his work when he was too

feeble to finish his task, and the grateful look that thanked him was

a ray of sunshine to cheer his cell when he was alone. Mason envied the

splendid health of his neighbour, and mourned to see it wasting there.

He was a peaceful soul and tried, as far as a whispered word or warning

glance could do it, to deter Dan from joining the 'bad lot', as the

rebels were called. But having turned his face from the light, Dan found

the downward way easy, and took a grim satisfaction in the prospect of

a general outbreak during which he might revenge himself upon the

tyrannical warden, and strike a blow for his own liberty, feeling that

an hour of insurrection would be a welcome vent for the pent-up passions

that tormented him. He had tamed many a wild animal, but his own lawless

spirit was too much for him, till he found the curb that made him master

of himself.

The Sunday before Thanksgiving, as he sat in chapel, Dan observed

several guests in the seats reserved for them, and looked anxiously

to see if any familiar face was there; for he had a mortal fear that

someone from home would suddenly confront him. No, all were strangers,

and he soon forgot them in listening to the chaplain's cheerful words,

and the sad singing of many heavy hearts. People often spoke to the

convicts, so it caused no surprise when, on being invited to address

them, one of the ladies rose and said she would tell them a little

story; which announcement caused the younger listeners to pack up their

ears, and even the older ones to look interested; for any change in

their monotonous life was welcome.

The speaker was a middle-aged woman in black, with a sympathetic face,

eyes full of compassion, and a voice that seemed to warm the heart,

because of certain motherly tones in it. She reminded Dan of Mrs Jo, and

he listened intently to every word, feeling that each was meant for him,

because by chance, they came at the moment when he needed a softening

memory to break up the ice of despair which was blighting all the good

impulses of his nature.

It was a very simple little story, but it caught the men's attention at

once, being about two soldiers in a hospital during the late war,

both badly wounded in the right arm, and both anxious to save these

breadwinners and go home unmaimed. One was patient, docile, and

cheerfully obeyed orders, even when told that the arm must go. He

submitted and after much suffering recovered, grateful for life, though

he could fight no more. The other rebelled, would listen to no advice,

and having delayed too long, died a lingering death, bitterly regretting

his folly when it was too late. 'Now, as all stories should have a

little moral, let me tell you mine,' added the lady, with a smile, as

she looked at the row of young men before her, sadly wondering what

brought them there.

'This is a hospital for soldiers wounded in life's battle; here are sick

souls, weak wills, insane passions, blind consciences, all the ills that

come from broken laws, bringing their inevitable pain and punishment

with them. There is hope and help for every one, for God's mercy is

infinite and man's charity is great; but penitence and submission must

come before the cure is possible. Pay the forfeit manfully, for it is

just; but from the suffering and shame wring new strength for a nobler

life. The scar will remain, but it is better for a man to lose both arms

than his soul; and these hard years, instead of being lost, may be made

the most precious of your lives, if they teach you to rule yourselves. O

friends, try to outlive the bitter past, to wash the sin away, and begin

anew. If not for your own sakes, for that of the dear mothers, wives,

and children, who wait and hope so patiently for you. Remember them,

and do not let them love and long in vain. And if there be any here

so forlorn that they have no friend to care for them, never forget the

Father whose arms are always open to receive, forgive, and comfort

His prodigal sons, even at the eleventh hour.' There the little sermon

ended; but the preacher of it felt that her few hearty words had not

been uttered in vain, for one boy's head was down, and several faces

wore the softened look which told that a tender memory was touched. Dan

was forced to set his lips to keep them steady, and drop his eyes to

hide the sudden dew that dimmed them when waiting, hoping friends were

spoken of. He was glad to be alone in his cell again, and sat thinking

deeply, instead of trying to forget himself in sleep. It seemed as if

those words were just what he needed to show him where he stood and how

fateful the next few days might be to him. Should he join the 'bad lot',

and perhaps add another crime to the one already committed, lengthen the

sentence already so terrible to bear, deliberately turn his back on all

that was good, and mar the future that might yet be redeemed? Or should

he, like the wiser man in the story, submit, bear the just punishment,

try to be better for it; and though the scar would remain, it might

serve as a reminder of a battle not wholly lost, since he had saved his

soul though innocence was gone? Then he would dare go home, perhaps,

confess, and find fresh strength in the pity and consolation of those

who never gave him up.

Good and evil fought for Dan that night as did the angel and the devil

for Sintram, and it was hard to tell whether lawless nature or loving

heart would conquer. Remorse and resentment, shame and sorrow, pride and

passion, made a battle-field of that narrow cell, and the poor fellow

felt as if he had fiercer enemies to fight now than any he had met in

all his wanderings. A little thing turned the scale, as it so often does

in these mysterious hearts of ours, and a touch of sympathy helped Dan

decide the course which would bless or ban his life.

In the dark hour before the dawn, as he lay wakeful on his bed, a ray

of light shone through the bars, the bolts turned softly, and a man came

in. It was the good chaplain, led by the same instinct that brings a

mother to her sick child's pillow; for long experience as nurse of souls

had taught him to see the signs of hope in the hard faces about him,

and to know when the moment came for a helpful word and the cordial

of sincere prayer that brings such comfort and healing to tried and

troubled hearts. He had been to Dan before at unexpected hours, but

always found him sullen, indifferent, or rebellious, and had gone away

to patiently bide his time. Now it had come; a look of relief was in the

prisoner's face as the light shone on it, and the sound of a human

voice was strangely comfortable after listening to the whispers of

the passions, doubts, and fears which had haunted the cell for hours,

dismaying Dan by their power, and showing him how much he needed help to

fight the good fight, since he had no armour of his own.

'Kent, poor Mason has gone. He left a message for you, and I felt

impelled to come and give it now, because I think you were touched by

what we heard today, and in need of the help Mason tried to give you,'

said the chaplain, taking the one seat and fixing his kind eyes on the

grim figure in the bed.

'Thank you, sir, I'd like to hear it,' was all Dan's answer; but he

forgot himself in pity for the poor fellow dead in prison, with no last

look at wife or child.

He went suddenly, but remembered you, and begged me to say these words:

“Tell him not to do it, but to hold on, do his best, and when his time

is out go right to Mary, and she'll make him welcome for my sake. He's

got no friends in these parts and will feel lonesome, but a woman's

always safe and comfortable when a fellow's down on his luck. Give him

my love and good-bye for he was kind to me, and God will bless him for

it.” Then he died quietly, and tomorrow will go home with God's pardon,

since man's came too late.'

Dan said nothing, but laid his arm across his face and lay quite still.

Seeing that the pathetic little message had done its work even better

than he hoped, the chaplain went on, unconscious how soothing his

paternal voice was to the poor prisoner who longed to 'go home', but

felt he had forfeited the right.

'I hope you won't disappoint this humble friend whose last thought was

for you. I know that there is trouble brewing, and fear that you may be

tempted to lend a hand on the wrong side. Don't do it, for the plot will

not succeed--it never does--and it would be a pity to spoil your record

which is fair so far. Keep up your courage, my son, and go out at the

year's end better, not worse, for this hard experience. Remember a

grateful woman waits to welcome and thank you if you have no friends of

your own; if you have, do your best for their sake, and let us ask God

to help you as He only can.'

Then waiting for no answer the good man prayed heartily, and Dan

listened as he never had before; for the lonely hour, the dying message,

the sudden uprising of his better self, made it seem as if some kind

angel had come to save and comfort him. After that night there was a

change in Dan, though no one knew it but the chaplain; for to all the

rest he was the same silent, stern, unsocial fellow as before, and

turning his back on the bad and the good alike, found his only pleasure

in the books his friend brought him. Slowly, as the steadfast drop wears

away the rock, the patient kindness of this man won Dan's confidence,

and led by him he began to climb out of the Valley of Humiliation

towards the mountains, whence, through the clouds, one can catch

glimpses of the Celestial City whither all true pilgrims sooner or

later turn their wistful eyes and stumbling feet. There were many

back-slidings, many struggles with Giant Despair and fiery Apollyon,

many heavy hours when life did not seem worth living and Mason's escape

the only hope. But through all, the grasp of a friendly hand, the sound

of a brother's voice, the unquenchable desire to atone for the past by a

better future, and win the right to see home again, kept poor Dan to his

great task as the old year drew to its end, and the new waited to turn

another leaf in the book whose hardest lesson he was learning now.

At Christmas he yearned so for Plumfield that he devised a way to send a

word of greeting to cheer their anxious hearts, and comfort his own. He

wrote to Mary Mason, who lived in another State, asking her to mail the

letter he enclosed. In it he merely said he was well and busy, had given

up the farm, and had other plans which he would tell later; would not

be home before autumn probably, nor write often, but was all right, and

sent love and merry Christmas to everyone.

Then he took up his solitary life again, and tried to pay his forfeit

manfully.