A Good Man

by Guy Vanderhaeghe

  “Well then,” says Case, beginning to rise, “the geant Major has pressing business for me.”

  “Set that aside.” Walsh peremptorily motions him to sit, forcing Case to subside back down on the chair. “There’s another matter I need to speak to you about. That fellow Dunne you cautioned me about came to see me. The scoundrel wanted money to keep watch on the Irish in Fort Benton, can you believe his gall! I chucked the insufferable rascal out of my office. The next day he slipped this under my door.” Walsh removes several sheets of paper from a drawer and thrusts them at Case. “I don’t know what to make of it.”

  The handwriting lurches across the pages.

  Dear Major Walsh,

  I think you should rethink. Here is my warning and argument concerning trouble brewing for you in Montana. Fort Benton is a Democratic town, entire. The party is run by Irish and Southerners. Neither has any love for President Grant nor Republicans and will not think twice to give them any pain they can. Nor to us. It is a well-known fact the Irish hate us loyal subjects of Britain and grab every chance to stab us in the back. Now with the Sioux in uprisal and talk running wild here that the red men will flee to Canada, these Irishmen say if we take these Indians in we are the foes of honest Americans everywhere and it’s Perfidious Albion all over again, up to her devilish tricky ways. These Irishmen mean to stir up trouble in Montana and all over the United States on account of this, and make it as hot for us as possible. I know this because I live above the Stubhorn Saloon that is run by an Irishman by name of Dink Dooley where all the Irish hang about blackening our good name. I hear things continual about how they want to stick a pointy stick in our eye and how the Sioux will give them a chance to do it. The Southerners will back them in any ruckus with the Republicans because they hate Grant for licking them in the war. They all grouse it’s up to the President to keep the Indians in hand and he’s botching the job. All the citizens are hot under the collar because of this. So here is a double-edged sword to cut us Canadians backwards and forwards and it is swung at us by Irish traitors. In case you mistake me, I am Orange through and through and loyal to Our Sovereign Majesty the Queen. Depend on it.

  Now I will name you the worst of the rascals who need watching and why.

  1. John J. Donnelly, Fort Benton lawyer and politician. Holds rank of Colonel in Irish Republican Army. Known to have taken part in two attempts to invade Canada from U.S. of A. If memory serves you, recall he helped block extradition of wolfers who killed them poor Indians in your neck of the woods, up there in Cypress Hills in 1873. Led demonstrations and ralleys against England and Canada all over Montana, claiming we was interfering with rights and liberties of Americans. Everybody in Benton still admires hot-winded speech he gave here in front of banner showing American eagle twisting tail of British lion. Lawyer Donnelly struts frequent on how he got Commissioner Macleod of NWMP arrested on visit to Helena on charge of provoking false arrests of so-called innocent wolfers. I have heard Donnelly brag on this with my own ears. I bring this all back to your mind to show that these scoundrels stop at nothing.

  2. Johnny Healy, Chairman of Choteau County Democrats and Sheriff of Fort Benton. You Mounted Police pushed him out of the whiskey trade and shut down Fort Whoop-Up, costing Mr. Healy plenty of hard cash in lost profits selling porch climber to British Indians. So he is no friend of yours. Fenian sympathizer and well situated to make political trouble.

  3. Lastly, biggest troublemaker of them all is rumoured to be in vicinity, General John O’Neill. Three times led Irish Republican Army into Canada, namely Ridgeway, Pigeon Hill, and not too long ago went to the Red River to prod the half-breeds into rebellion against the lawful government, throw us Canadians out and petition Congress to take Manitoba into U.S. of A. Had backing of Governor of Minnesota and members of Congress. On his way to Red River attacked Hudson Bay post he thought was on Canadian territory, but same was on American territory. So Army arrested him, but he was let out of jail in a blink of the eye because authorities here in this country fear power of Irish vote and mollycoddle them something scandalous.

  Now as is plain to see, I know what I’m talking about and as a good patriot I will watch these mischief-makers for you and report all plots they are hatching that comes to my attention. But as I said before you brushed me off so rude, sir, keeping an eye on these scum is dangerous business and costly in out-of-pocket expenses. But I will do it cheap, at the price of $50 a month, and if you don’t think that a bargain you must be a Jew. I would think hard about my offer if I was you because I will look to your interests and those of our country. I can’t speak fairer than that. If you come to see the light, I can be reached at the Stubhorn, Fort Benton.

  Yours sincerely,

  Michael Dunne

  All the while he has been reading, Case has been aware of Walsh’s boots impatiently scuffling under his desk. He only loses that sound when he comes across the name of General O’Neill, a disconcerting encounter. When he lifts his eyes from the document, Walsh eagerly demands, “So what do you make of that?”

  “Dunne has a point – a small point – about the trouble the Irish in Montana may create.”

  Walsh’s countenance darkens, believing that a criticism of him has been levelled. “You mean to say I was wrong to turn him out?”

  “No, you were right to do that. This Dunne creature could be himself working for the Fenians. Or playing both sides of the fence – trying to collect a monthly stipend from you while at the same time peddling to the Irish whatever he picks up from his association with the Police. That sort of man is better kept at arm’s length. It’s never advisable to take snakes to your bosom.”

  “I thought as much,” says Walsh, although it is clear to Case he hadn’t.

  “Nevertheless, it might be wise if you warned Secretary Scott of the possibility of Irish political agitation. I wouldn’t exaggerate the peril. Simply intimate something disagreeable might be expected, give a sober alert to the goom ent that they can take under advisement. If trouble does arise, you will look perspicacious.”

  Walsh leans forward over the desk. “Is it possible that Dunne is Secretary Scott’s man? I wouldn’t put it past the old bugger, putting me to the test to see if I show what he calls initiative.”

  The suspicion is so preposterous that only Walsh’s anxious look prevents Case from smiling. “Hardly. The secretary has more important things to do than to lay traps for a mere subinspector. The minute you walked out of his office, you walked out of his mind. Only if you make a misstep will he take notice of you again.” He sees that the phrase “mere sub-inspector” is not sitting well with the Major. But if he is to be of any use to Walsh, he will need to say similar things to him in the future. Case gets to his feet. “Duty calls. Back to the pick and shovel,” he announces.

  “Damn it, man,” says Walsh. “I’ll speak to the Sergeant Major and see you relieved of that chore.”

  “But I don’t want to be relieved of it. I haven’t finished many things in my life. I need the practice.” And with that he leaves Walsh’s office.

  For the rest of the afternoon Case chops ground, hands weeping blood, thinking of what Walsh has proposed. There is no denying that there is something flattering about being petitioned by a man who, back in the days at the Kingston Cavalry School, was so universally admired. Walsh had sparkled with promise, was a constant reminder to the rest of the officer trainees that he was the one real warrior among them. Like Blake’s Tyger, he had been formed by a different hand and eye, his sinews twisted to one purpose – a life of action. All he had talked about was his yearning to be gazetted a subaltern in the British Regulars. A little hard cash could have bought him a commission, but the son of a ship’s carpenter didn’t have that sort of tin – or the requisite gentleman’s upbringing. So Walsh had swallowed disappointment and settled for second best, a career in the Police, and now Scott was threatening to snatch second best out of his grasp. Only fear could have made Walsh beg for assistance, and that fear was
what had surprised and touched Case the most. He had never guessed it was an element of the Major’s character.

  It is easy to want to protect him. The man is as susceptible to disaster as a toddler careering around the house with a fork stuck in his mouth. And there Case thinks he might be useful. Protect and serve not only Walsh but perhaps his country too. If Scott doesn’t think he needs the Major, then he’s a fool. Only Walsh can give B Troop the backbone it will need to face the Sioux.

  It surprises him a little that some of his youthful patriotism remains, though he will practise what is left of it in secret, as the Bible enjoins you to pray in secret, rather than do what his father would surely prefer and make the grand gesture of re-enlisting, parade his love of country. He has no interest in winning anyone’s applause. Least of all his father’s. Playing this game for its own sake is enticing. His father has always been the grand master of this variety of backroom chess. He cannot deny that also has something to do with the decision he arrives at.

  That evening he frames his letter of introduction to Major Ilges. Next moring he gives it to Walsh to copy and sign. He also seizes the opportunity to ask the Major to permit young Constable Hathaway to accompany McMullen and him to Fort Benton. Walsh is reluctant. Only when Case points out that Joe McMullen will soon be returning to Fort Walsh and can shepherd Hathaway safely back to the fold does the Major give way, reassured the lamb will not be left bleating in the wilderness.

  But when Case returns to his attack on the unyielding earth of the latrine trench he is not sure he has done the boy any favour. From the day he first met Peregrine Hathaway, he has been looking out for him. Hathaway’s naïveté, idealism, and brimming enthusiasm have made him unpopular with the more hard-bitten and cynical of his barrack mates. Case had gathered Hathaway under his wing to spare him what misery he could, but having that particular chick tucked away at his side has not always been a comfortable fit. Hathaway is very young, and acts even younger than he is, which is often a trial. He claims to be twenty, but Case is sure that that was a fabrication for the recruiting officer, and that the lad is no more than eighteen. Peregrine has decided he, Case, is an older brother and an infallible one to boot, and carries all his problems to him, nagging for solutions.

  Hathaway’s latest problem is a girl he met at the New Year’s dance in Fort Benton, an affair annually hosted by Major Ilges and to which a contingent of Police are always invited. To display B Troop at its best, Walsh always hand-picks the men who will attend the dance, and Hathaway’s good looks and impeccable English manners made him a highly suitable selection. There he met a young lady named Celeste Tarr, and a romantic correspondence between the two ensued. Now with mail delivery suspended, Hathaway is in a fever because several times in the past months he has sniffed in Miss Tarr’s letters allusions to a rival for her affections. The boy believes only a face-to-face meeting can re-establish his supremacy in her heart. Ever since he learned that Case’s departure to Fort Benton was imminent he has been importuning him to get Walsh to agree to let him make the trip too. And now he has given the boy what he wants. Two favours in two days, both granted because he was incapable of withstanding a plea for help. It will remain to be seen if no good deed goes unpunished.

  Case gives himself a shake. He has digging to do, a “sanitary convenience” to finish. For the next two days he labours mightily with scarcely a pause. Evenings, he has appointments with the Major to discuss how things will be handled with Ilges in Fort Benton. When Walsh cavils or balks, Case reminds him that if he does not cooperate, his “intermediary” has it in his power to quit at any time.

  The afternoon before Case’s term in the North-West Mounted Police ends, he throws the last shovelful of dirt out of the trench and clambers up the ladder. Face streaked with muddy sweat, he looks down with satisfaction on what he has accomplished. It seems to him a small step in putting the right foot forward into the future.

  Watching Joe McMullen tighten cinches, examine hooves for cracks and loose shoes, sling saddlebags into place, leaving nothing to chance before hitting the trail to Fort Benton, confirms for Case how wrong Walsh is to brand Joe lazy. If need be, he can act with energy and purpose. It’s just that his ambitions are different from the Major’s. Joe simply wants to enjoy life. He is content to be paid a dlar a head to break a string of horses for the NWMP every two or three months; the rest of the time he sits outside his cabin in the sun, regales passersby with jokes and stories, whittles sticks into toothpicks, makes friends with stray dogs, and, when the spirit moves him, goes hunting game. Right now, seeing him slip in and out among the horses, light footed, quick, and purposeful, it’s difficult to credit his reputation for sloth, which he had been branded with the moment of his arrival in the Cypress Hills. Case had been there to witness that first appearance.

  On a soft spring evening almost two years ago, a group of Police had been playing rounders on the parade square, when they spotted a horseman coming down the freight road from Fort Benton. The way he rode, slumped over in the saddle like a man wounded or deathly sick, caused them to break off the game and run to meet him. As they approached, the buckskin bearing the man came to a stop, ears up, watchful. The troopers edged in carefully, so as not to spook the nervous horse.

  The man’s chin hung down on his chest, face hidden by the wide brim of his hat. When he started to list precariously to the right they all took him for dead. Case was the first to dart forward, grab an arm to keep the toppling body from falling to the ground. As soon as he touched it, the corpse gave a galvanic twitch, Case flinched in surprise, and all the constables took a startled step backwards. Slowly the rider’s head lifted, and they all got their first look at Joe McMullen, a weather-ravaged face, crow’s feet flaring at the corners of deep-set black eyes, a crooked mouth, an iron-grey moustache drooping two long wispy tails below his jaws, a tall, lanky composition of sinew, bone, and stringy muscle.

  McMullen broke a lopsided grin at the red tunics surrounding him. “Lord,” he said, “I fell asleep and I’ve woke up in heaven, sitting in a bowl of strawberries. Where’s the cream?” Then with no further ado, he stretched out his hand to the nearest policeman, who happened to be Case. “Name’s Joe McMullen,” he said. “Glad to know you.”

  With time, Joe McMullen’s appearance in their midst was embellished into legend, an often repeated story about the idler who dozed his way from Fort Benton to Fort Walsh, dreamed his way through over a hundred miles of howling, perilous wilderness, simply drifting like cottonwood wool on a breeze, happy to settle wherever the wind carried him. Joe does nothing to deny this interpretation, simply says, “It ain’t a bad trip with your eyes closed. The scenery ain’t got much to recommend it.”

  McMullen is sheathing Peregrine Hathaway’s Police-issue Snider-Enfield carbine in the boy’s bucket scabbard. Hathaway is the only one in uniform, scarlet jacket and buff breeches, pillbox hat cocked on his head at a rakish angle. If McMullen is used goods, nicked and scarred, Hathaway looks fresh as a daisy even though the summer sun has burned his face livid. His habitually amazed and innocent blue eyes watch every move Joe McMullen makes.

  The last buckle buckled, the last bit of gear stowed away, Joe turns to Case and Hathaway and declares, “All right, girls, tuck your skirts between your legs and get your sit-upons in the saddle. Time to go.”

  They trot through the gates of Fort Walsh. There is no one to see them off but the guard. The rest of B Troop is taking supper, and Walsh is abed with a bad case of chills and fever. McMullen followed by Hathaway, Hathaway by Case, they file down the Benton–Walsh trail. The day before, the Métis scouts, Louis Léveillé and Cajou Morin, had done reconnaissance as far as the Milk River and found no evidence of Sioux in the area. Beyond the border, the disposition of the hostiles is unknown. Joe aims to cover the ground between Fort Walsh and the Milk by daylight and proceed into Montana Territory under cover of darkness. When dawn comes, the party will take cover, sleep, then make the last stage of the journey to Fo
rt Benton by night.

  The descent down the southern slopes follows a snaking path; the tops of the lodgepole pine and spruce sway in a wind that brooms the sky clear of every scrap of cloud. Bit by bit, the forest thins, the last of the trees fall away at their backs, and they enter a vast stretch of browning grass that shines like a dented brass platter in the slanting sun. Hour after hour, they continue on at the pace McMullen sets to conserve the strength of their horses for the long ride ahead. Just short of twilight, Case lifts his eyes from the shadows that have held him mesmerized for so long, tall spindly-legged horses, towering riders looming on their backs, and sees the Milk River smelted by the setting sun into a trickle of molten gold.

  “We’ll rest here until the sun drops,” McMullen declares, “let the horses drink their fill, make us some supper.”

  Joe gets a small fire going, one that scarcely raises a wisp of smoke, boils up corn mush, fries a pan of bacon. He dresses the porridge with salty bacon grease. The men crouch around the pot and spoon it up, eat bacon with their fingers. Nose to nose with Peregrine, Case can see he is pondering deeply on something.

  “Mr. McMullen,” Hathaway says uneasily, “ought we not discuss our tactics if we encounter Indians?” There is a contest playing out in Hathaway’s face. He is eager for a thrilling adventure of the sort Mr. G.A. Henty’s novels provided him back in his bedroom in Bristol. On the other hand, he realizes Mr. Henty is not in control of Peregrine Hathaway’s story, and the plucky young hero may end up lying butchered in the grass.

  “Tactics?” says McMullen. “If we bump into Sioux – I run and you come hard on my heels. If we can’t outrun them, then we stand and fight.” He jabs a thumb to Hathaway’s Snider-Enfield slung on his saddle in its bucket scabbard. “How many rounds you got for that carbine?”