The Bondman. A new saga

Front matter

A NEW SAGA. By HALL CAINE, AUTHOR OF "THE DEEMSTER." •*■■— _____ " Vengeance is Mine — I zvill repay." IN THREE VOLUMES. VOL. I.— THE BOOK OF STEPHEN ORRY. LONDON: WILLIAM HEINEMANN. 1890. [All rights reserved.~\ 'Eaflant.nu -preo? BALLANTYNE, HANSON AND CO. EDINBURGH AND LONDON TO MY SON, "LITTLE SUNLOCKS." NOTE. The central date of this story (a Saga in the only sense accepted among Icelanders) is 1800, when Iceland, in the same year as Ireland, lost the last visible sign of her ancient independence as a nation. But lest the historical incidents that stand as a back ground to simple human passions should seem to clash at some points, I hasten to say that I have not thought it wise to bind myself to the strict chronology of history, Manx or Icelandic, for some years before and after. I am partly conscious that the Iceland I have described is the Iceland of an earlier era, but Icelanders will not object to that licence if I have brought within my too narrow limits much of what is beautiful and noble and firing to enthusiasm in their old habits, customs, and laws.

To the foolish NOTE. revolt which occurred at Reykjavik early in this century I have tried to give the dignity of a serious revolution, such as, I truly think, Icelanders may yet make in order to become masters in their own house. For a great deal of my data towards this sort of secon dary interest, I am indebted to many books, Icelandic and English, and for some personal help I owe my thanks to Herra J6n A. Hjaltalin, of Modruvellir, who is not, how ever, to be charged with my mistakes, too numerous, I have no doubt. For my descrip tions of Icelandic scene and character I can claim no authority but that of my own observation. H. C. Hawthorns, Keswick. PROEM. There is a beautiful Northern legend of a man who loved a good fairy, and wooed her and won her for his wife, and then found that she was no more than a woman after all.

Grown weary, he turned his back upon her and wandered away over the mountains ; and there, on the other side of a ravine from where he was, he saw, as he thought, another fairy, who was lovely to look upon, and played sweet music and sang a sweet song. Then his heart was filled with joy and bitterness, and he cried, " Oh, that the gods had given me this one to wife and not the other" At that, with mighty effort and in great peril, he crossed the ravine and made towards ihe fairy, and she fled from him; but he ran and followed her and overtook her, and captured her and turned her face to his face that he might kiss her, and lo! she was his wife ! This old folk-tale is half my story — the play of emotions as sweet and light as the footsteps of the shadows that flit over a field of corn. PROEM.

Chapter I. Stephen Orry, Seaman, Of Stappen

H. Jorgen Jorgensen was Governor-General of Iceland. He was a Dane, born in Copen hagen, apprenticed to the sea on board an English trader, afterwards employed as a petty officer in the British navy, and some time in command of a Danish privateer during an alliance of Denmark and France against England. A rover, a schemer, a shrewd man of affairs, who was honest by way of interest, just by policy, generous by strategy, and who never suffered his con science, which was not a good one, to get the better of him. VOL. I. A In one of his adventures he had sailed a Welsh brig from Liverpool to Reykjavik. This had been his introduction to the Ice landic capital, then a little, hungry, creeping settlement, with its face towards America and its wooden feet in the sea. It had also been his introduction to the household of the Welsh merchant, who had a wharf by the old Canning basin at Liverpool, a counting house behind his residence in Wolstenholme Square, and a daughter of five-and-twenty.

Jorgen, by his own proposal, was to barter English produce for Icelandic tallow. On his first voyage he took out a hundred tons of salt, and brought back a heavy cargo of lava ballast. On his second voyage he took out the Welshman's daughter as his wife, and did not again trouble to send home an empty ship. He had learned that mischief was once more brewing between England and Den mark, had violated his English letters of marque and run into Copenhagen, induced the authorities there, on the strength of his _■ knowledge of English affairs, to appoint him to the Governor-Generalship of Iceland (then vacant) at a salary of four hundred pounds a year, and landed at Reykjavik with the Ice landic flag, of the white falcon on the blue ground — the banner of the Vikings — at the masthead of his father-in-law's Welsh brig*.

Jorgen Jorgensen was then in his early manhood, and the strong heart of the man did not decline with years, but rode it out with him through life to death. He had always intended to have a son and build up a family. It was the sole failure of his career that he had only a daughter. That had been a disaster for which he was not accountable, but he prepared himself to make a good end of a bad beginninc**. With God's assistance and his own extreme labour he meant to marry his daughter to Count Trollop, the Danish Minister for Iceland, a functionary with five hundred a year, a house at Reyk javik, and another at the Danish capital. This person was five -and -forty, tall, wrinkled, powdered, oiled, and devoted to gallantry. Jorgen's daughter, resembling her Welsh mother, was patient in suffering, passionate in love, and fierce in hatred.

Her name was Rachel. At the advent of Count Trollop she was twenty, and her mother had then been some years dead. The Count perceived Jorgen's drift, smiled at it, silently acquiesced in it, took even a languid interest in it, arising partly out of the Governor's position and the wealth the honest man was supposed to have amassed in the rigorous exercise of a place of power, and partly out of the daughter's own comeliness, which was not to be despised. At first the girl, on her part, neither assisted her father's designs nor resisted them, but showed com plete indifference to the weighty questions whom she should marry, when she should marry, and how she should marry ; and this mood of mind contented her down to the first week in July that followed the anniver sary of her twenty-first birthday.

That was the month of Althing, the na tional holiday of fourteen days, when the people's law-givers — the governor, the bishop, the speaker, and the sheriffs — met the people's delegates and some portion of the people themselves at the ancient Mount of Laws in the valley of Thingvellir, for the reading of the old statutes and the pro mulgation of the new ones, for the trial of felons and the settlement of claims, for the making of love and the making of quarrels, for wrestling and horse-fighting, for the prac tice of arms and the breakingof heads. Count Trollop was in Iceland at this cele bration of the ancient festival, and he was induced by Jorgen to give it the light of his countenance. The Governor's company set out on half-a-hundred of the native ponies, and his daughter rode between himself and the Count.

During that ride of six or seven long Danish miles, Jorgen settled the terms of the intended transfer to his own complete contentment. The Count acquiesced, and the daughter did not rebel. The lonely valley was reached, the tents were pitched, the Bishop hallowed the assembly with solemn ceremonies, and the business of Althing began. Three days the work went on, and Rachel wearied of it ; but on the fourth the wrestling was started, and her father sent for her to sit with him on the Mount and to present at the end of the contest the silver-buckled belt to the champion of all Iceland. She obeyed the summons with indifference, and took a seat beside the Judge, with the Count standing at her side. In the space below there was a crowd of men and boys, women and children, gathered about the ring.

One wrestler was throwing every one that came before him.. His name was Patriksen, and he was supposed to be descended from the Irish, who settled ages ago on the Westmann Islands. His success became monotonous ; at every fresh bout his self-confidence grew more insufferable, and the girl's eyes wan dered from the spectacle to the spectators. From that instant her indifference fell away. By the outskirts of the crowd, on one of the lower mounds of the Mount of Laws, a man sat with his head in his hand and his elbow on his knee. His head was bare, and from his hairy breast his woollen shirt was thrown back by reason of the heat. He was a magnificent creature — young, stalwart, fair-haired, broad-chested, with limbs like the beech-tree, and muscles like its great gnarled 1 0*0 round heads. His coat, a sort of sailor's jacket, was coarse and torn ; his stockings, reaching to his knees, were cut and brown.

He did not seem to heed the wrestling, and there rested upon him the idle air of the lusty Icelander — the languor of the tired animal. Only, when at the close of a bout a cheer rose and a way was made through the crowd for the exit of the vanquished man, did he lift up his great slow eyes — grey as those of a seal, and as calm and lustreless. The wrestling came to an end. Patriksen justified his Irish blood, and was proclaimed the winner, and stepped up to the foot of the Mount, that the daughter of the Governor might buckle about him the champion's belt. The girl went through her function listlessly, her eyes wandering to where the fair-haired giant sat apart. Then the Westmann islander called for drink that he might treat the losing men ; and having drunk himself, he began to swagger afresh, saying that they might find him the strongest and lustiest man that day at Thingvellir, and he would bargain to throw him over his back.

As he spoke he strutted by the bottom of the Mount, and the man who sat there lifted his head and looked at him. Something in the glance arrested Patriksen, and he stopped. " This seems to be a lump of a lad," he said. " Let us see what we can do with im. And at that he threw his long arms about the stalwart fellow, squared his broad hips before him, thrust down his head into his breast until his red neck was as thick as a bullock's, and threw all the strength of his body into his arms that he might lift the man out of his seat. But he moved him not an inch. With feet that held the earth like the hoofs of an ox, the young man sat unmoved. Then those who had followed at the islander's heels for the liquor he was spending first stared in wonderment at his failure, and next laughed in derision of his bragging, and shouted to know why, before it was too late, the young man had not taken a bout at the wrestling, for that he who could hold his seat so must be the strongest-limbed man between the fells and the sea.

Hearing this Patriksen tossed his head in anger, and said it was not yet too late, that if he took home the champion's belt it should be no rue-bargain to master or man from sea to sea, and, buckled though it was, it should be his who could take it from its place. At that word the young fellow rose, and then it was seen that his right arm was use less, being -broken between the elbow and the wrist, and bound with a kerchief above the wound. Nothing loth for this infirmity, he threw his other arm about the waist of the islander, and the two men closed for a fall. Patriksen had the first grip, and he swung to it, thinking straightway to lay his adversary by the heels ; but the young man held his feet, and then, pushing one leg between the legs of the islander, planting the other knee into his stomach, thrusting his head beneath his chin, he knuckled his left hand under the islander's rib, pulled towards him, pushed from him, threw the weight of his body forward, and like a green withe Patriksen doubled backwards with a groan.

Then at a rush of the islander's kinsmen, and a cry that his back would be broken, the young man loosed his grip, and Patriksen rolled from him to the earth, as a clod rolls from the ploughshare. All this time Jorgen's daughter had craned her neck to look over the heads of the people, and when the tussle was at an end, her face, which had been strained to the point of anguish, relaxed to smiles, and she turned to her father and asked if the champion's belt should not be his who had overcome the champion. But Jorgen answered no — that the contest was over, and judgment made, and he who would take the champion's belt must come to the next Althing and earn it. Then the girl unlocked her necklace of coral and silver spangles, beckoned the young man to her, bound the necklace about his broken arm close up by the shoulder, and asked him his name.

"Stephen," he answered " Whose son ? " said she, " Orryson — but they call me Stephen Orry." "Of what craft? "Seaman, of Stappen, under Snaefell Jokull." The Westmann islander had rolled to his legs by this time, and now he came shambling up, with the belt in his hand and his sullen eyes on the ground. " Keep it," he said, and flung the belt at the girl's feet, between her and his adversary. Then he strode away through the throng, with curses on his white lips and the veins of his squat forehead swollen and dark. It was midnight before the crowds had broken up and straggled back to their tents, but the sun of this northern land was still half above the horizon, and its dull red glow was on the waters of the lake that lay to the west of the valley. In the dim light of an hour later, when the hills of Thingvellir slept under the cloud-shadow that was their only night, Stephen Orry stood with the Gover nor's daughter by the door of the Thingvellir parsonage, for Jorgen's company were the parson's guests.

He held out the champion's belt to her and said, "Take it back, for if I keep it the man and his kinsmen will follow me all the days of my life." She answered him that it was his, for he had won it, and until it was taken from him he must hold it, and if he stood in peril from the kinsmen of any man let him remember that it was she, daughter of the Governor himself, who had given it. The air was hushed in that still hour, not a twig or a blade rustling over the serried face of that desolate land as far as the wooded rifts that stood under the snowy dome of the Armann fells. As she spoke there was a sharp noise near at hand, and he started ; but she rallied him on his fears, and laughed that one who had felled the blustering champion of that day should tremble at a noise in the night. There was a wild outcry in Thingvellir the next morning.

Patriksen, the Westmann islander, had been murdered. There was a rush of the people to the place where his body had been found. It lay like a rag across the dyke that ran between the par sonage and the church. On the dead man's face was the look that all had seen there when last night he flung down the belt between his adversary and the Governor's daughter, crying, " Keep it." But his sullen eyes were glazed, and stared up without the quivering of a lid through the rosy sunlight; the dark veins on his brow were now purple, and when they lifted him they saw that his back was broken. Then there was a gathering at the foot of the Mount, with the priest for judge, and nine men of those who had slept in the tents nearest to the body for inquest. Nothing was discovered. No one had heard a sound throughout the night.

There was no charge to lay before the law-givers at Althing. The kinsmen of the dead man cast dark looks at Stephen Orry, but he gave never a sign. Next day the strong man was laid under the shallow turf of the church garth. His little life's swaggering was swaggered out ; he must sleep on till the resurrection without one brag more. The Governor's daughter did not leave the guest room of the parsonage from the night of the wrestling onwards to the end _> o of the Althing holiday, and then, the last ceremonies done, the tents struck and the ponies saddled, she took her place between Jorgen and the Count for the return journey home. Twenty paces behind her the fair haired Stephen Orry rode on his shaggy pony, which was gaunt and peaky and bearded as a goat, and five paces behind him rode the brother of the dead man Patriksen.

Amid five hundred men and women, and eight hundred horses saddled s for riding or packed with burdens, these three had set their faces towards the little wooden capital. July passed into August, and the day was near that had been appointed by Jorgen Jorgensen for the marriage of his daughter to the Count Trollop. At the girl's request the marriage was postponed. The second day came nigh ; again the girl excused her self, and again the marriage was put off. A third time the appointed day approached, and a third time the girl asked for delay. But Jorgen's iron will was to be tampered with no longer. The time was near when the Minister must return to Copenhagen, and that was reason enough why the thing in hand should be despatched. The marriage must be delayed no longer. But then the Count betrayed reluctance.

Rumour had pestered him with reports that vexed his pride. He dropped hints of them to the Governor. "Strange," said he, "that a woman should prefer the stink of the ful mar to the perfumes of civilisation." Jorgen fired up at the sneer. His daughter was his daughter, and he was Governor-General of the island. What low-born churl would dare to lift his eyes to the child of Jorgen Jorgensen ? The Count had his answer pat. He had made inquiries. The man's name was Stephen Orry. He came from Stappen under Snaefell, and was known there for a wastrel. On the poor glory of his village vogue as an athlete, he idled his days in bed and his nights at the tavern. His father, an honest thrall, was dead ; his mother lived by splitting and drying stock-fish for English traders. He was the foolish old woman's pride, and she kept him.

Such was the man whom the daughter of the Governor had chosen before the Minister for Iceland. At that Jorgen's hard face grew livid and white by turns. They were sitting at supper in Government House, and, with an oath, the Governor brought his fist down on the table. It was a lie; his daughter knew no more of the man than he did. The Count shrugged his shoulders, and asked where she was then, that she was not with them. Jorgen answered, with an absent look, that she was forced to keep her room. At that moment a message came for the Count. It was urgent, and could not wait. The Count went to the door, and, returning presently, asked if Jorgen was sure that his daughter was in the house. Certain of" it he was, for she was ill, and the days were deepening to winter. But for all his assurance, Jorgen sprang up from his seat and made for his daughter's chamber.

She was not there, and the room was empty. The Count met him in the corridor. " Follow me," he whispered, and Jorgen followed, his proud, stern head bent low. In the rear of the Government House at Reykjavik there is a small meadow. That night it was inches deep in the year's first fall of snow, but two persons stood together there, close locked in each other's arms — Stephen Orry and the daughter of Jorgen VOL. I. B Jorgensen. With the tread of a cat a man crept up behind them. It was the brother of Patriksen. At his back came the Count and the Governor. The snow-cloud lifted, and a white gush of moonlight revealed all. With a cry of a wild beast Jorgen flung himself between his daughter and her lover, leapt at Stephen and struck him hard on the breast, and then, as the girl dropped to her knees at his feet, he cursed her.

" Bastard," he shrieked, " there's no blood of mine in your body. Go to your filthy offal, and may the devil damn you both." She stopped her ears to shut out the torrent of a father's curse, but before the flood of it was spent she fell backward cold and senseless, and her upturned face was whiter than the snow. Then her giant lover lifted her in his arms and strode away in silence.

Chapter II. The Mother Of

A MAN. The daughter os the Governor-General and the seaman of Stappen were made man and wife, and the little Lutheran priest who married them, Sir Sigfus Thomson, a worthy man and a good Christian, had reason to remember the ceremony. Within a week he was removed from his chaplaincy at the capital to the parsonage of Grimsey, the smallest cure of the Icelandic Church, on an island separated from the mainland by seven Danish miles of sea. The days that followed brought Rachel no cheer of life. She had thought that her husband would take her away to his home under Snaefell, and so remove her from the scene of her humiliation. He excused himself, saying that Stappen was a *9 poor place, where the great ships never put in to trade, and that there was more chance of livelihood at Reykjavik. Rachel crushed down her shame, and they took a mean little house in the fishing quarter.

Stephen did no work. Once he went out four days with a company of Englishmen as guide to the Geysers, and on his return he idled four weeks on the wharves, looking at the foreign seamen as they arrived by the boats. The fame of his exploit at Thingvellir had brought him a troop of admirers, and what he wanted for his plea sure he never lacked. But necessity began to touch him at home, and then he hinted to Rachel that her father was rich. She had borne his indifference to her degrada tion, she had not murmured at the idleness that pinched them, but at that word some thing in her heart seemed to break. She bent her head and said nothing. He went on to hint that she should go to her father, who seeing her need would surely forgive her. Then her proud spirit could brook no more. " Rather than darken my father's doors again," she said, "I will starve on a crust of bread and a drop of water."

Things did not mend, and Stephen began to cast down his eyes in shame when Rachel looked at him. Never a word of blame she spoke, but he reproached himself and talked of his old mother at Stappen. She was the only one who could do any good with him. She knew him, and did not spare him. When she was near he worked sometimes, and did not drink too much. He must send for her. Rachel raised no obstacle, and one day the old mother came, perched on a bony, ragged-eared pony, and with all her belong ings on the pack behind her. She was a little, hard-featured .woman ; and, at the first sight of her seamed and blotted face, Rachel's spirit sank. The old woman was active and restless. Two days after her arrival she was at work at her old trade of splitting and drying stock fish. All the difference that the change had made for her was that she was working on the beach at Reykjavik instead of the beach at Stappen, and living with her son and her son's wife instead of alone.

Her coming did not better the condition of Rachel. She had measured her new daughter-in-law from head to foot at their first meeting, and neither smiled nor kissed her. She was devoted to her son, and no woman was too good for him. Her son had loved her, and Rachel had come between them. The old woman made up her mind to hate the girl, because her fine manners and comely face were a daily rebuke to her own coarse habits and homely looks, and an hourly contrast always present to Stephen's eyes. Stephen was as idle as ever, and less ashamed of his sloth now that there was some one to keep the wolf from the door. His mother accepted with cheerfulness the duty of bread-winner to her son, but Rachel's helplessness chafed her. For all her fine fingering the girl could finger nothing that would fill the pot.

" A pretty wife you've brought me home to keep," she muttered morning and night. But Rachel's abasement was not even yet at its worst. " Oh," she thought, " if I could but get back my husband to myself alone, he would see my humiliation and save me from it." She went a woman's way to work to have the old mother sent home to Stappen. But the trick that woman's wit can devise woman's wit can baulk, and the old mother held her ground. Then the girl bethought her of her old shame at living in a hovel close to her father's house, and asked to be taken away. Anywhere, anywhere, let it be to the world's end, and she would follow. Stephen answered that one place was like another in Iceland, where the people were few and all knew their story ; and, as for foreign parts, though a seaman he was not a sea-going man, farther than the whale fishing about their coasts, and that, go where they might to better their condition, yet other poor men were there already.

At that, Rachel's heart sank, for she saw that the great body of her husband must cover a pigmy soul. Bound she was for all her weary days to the place of her disgrace, doomed she was to live to the last with the woman who hated her, and to eat that woman's bitter bread. She was heavy with child at this time, and her spirit was broken. So she sat herself down with her feet to the hearth, and wept. There the old mother saw her as often as she bustled in and out of the house from the beach, and many a gibe she flung her way. But Stephen sat beside her one day with a shame-faced look, and cursed his luck, and said if he only had an open boat of his own what he would do for both of them. She asked how much a boat would cost him, and he answered sixty crowns ; that a Scotch captain then in the harbour had such a one to sell at that price, and that it was a better boat than the fishermen of those parts ever owned, for it was English built.

Now it chanced that sitting alone that very day in her hopelessness, Rachel had overheard a group of noisy girls in the street tell of a certain Jew, named Bernard Frank, who stood on the jetty by the stores buying hair of the young maidens who would sell to him, and of the great money he had paid to some of them, such as they had never handled before. And now at this mention of the boat, and at the flash of hope that came with it, Rachel remembered that she herself had a plentiful head of hair, and how often it had been com mended for its colour and texture, and length and abundance, in the days (now gone for ever) when all things were good and beautiful that belonged to the daughter of the Governor. So making some excuse to Stephen, she rose up, put off her huf a, her little house-cap with the tassel, put on her large linen head-dress, hurried out, and made for the wharf.

There in truth the Jew was standing with a group of girls about him. And some of these would sell outright to him, and then go straightway to the stores to buy filigree jewellery and rings, or bright-hued shawls, with the price of their golden locks. And some would hover about him, between desire of so much artificial adornment and dread of so much natural disfigurement, until like moths they would fall before the light of the Jew's bright silver. Rachel had reached the place at the first impulse of her thought, but being there her heart misgave her, and she paused on the outskirts of the crowd. To go in among these girls and sell her hair to the Jew, was to make herself one with the lowest and meanest of the town, but that was not the fear that held her back. Suddenly the thought had come to her that what she had intended to do was meant to win her husband back to her, yet that she could not say what it was that had won him for her at the first.