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the north of the city of Hull, in the Province of Quebec,
streaches a rugged and picturesque country drained by
the Gatineau River. There is good land between the hills
and good farms also. Not fifty miles from the mouth
of the river, Stag Creek mingles its waters with the
larger stream, and here begins what is known as the
Stag Creek District, famous for the turbulent nature
of its inhabitants and the size of its speckled trout.
The former are Irish and have a long score “agin
the Gov’ment,” the chief item of which is
an unjust demand for taxes upon land which they were
told was free from all such unholy burdens. Year after
year had the county authorities tried to collect the
taxes, but without success. After these repeated failures
the settlers felt secure. Their good money was in their
breeches pockets where they meant it to stay. In the
autumn of 1895 a detachment of the local Canadian militia
had to be sent to enforce the law; but this story is
of an earlier year.
In the fall of 1892
Jacques Plamondon was in need of employment. He had
commenced life as a tally-keeper in a lumber camp and
now he was a half-fledged notary who conceived he knew
a thing or two more than the Attorney-General at Quebec.
So when he heard of the annual trouble at Stag Creek
he offered himself.
“I will collect
your taxes,” he said melo-dramatically, “give
me your roll book.”
“You
will do what no one else has been able to do.”
“Good,
but I will do it.”
So the roll
book and the instructions were shortly handed over to
him. Soon he was boasting in all the bar-rooms of Hull
that he would return triumphant after spoiling the wild
Irishmen on Stag Creek. He expounded his theories most
publicly, and before long rumors of his plans reached
the ears of Stag Creek, and Terrance O’Halloran,
happening to be in Hull for a day, overheard Mons. Plamondon
in the bar-room of the Imperial Hotel and confirmed
the reports himself. [Page 125]
Terrance was
a Stag Creek squatter, a small man of nimble wit, whose
shock of red hair lay well over his small twinkling
eyes. His nose was spread wide upon his face, his expression
was one of childlike simplicity. He carried his shoulders
hunched up to his ears, and he “wore” his
pipe upside down as if he were in a continual shower
of rain. When he heard Mons. Plamondon bragging of his
plan for collecting the Stag Creek taxes he looked more
simple and red-headed and “hunched up” than
ever. Mons. Plamondon’s theory was that he should
succeed by politeness. He explained this to his friends
in voluble French.
“You
see I will approach these poor people with deference,
not like a cut-purse. I will explain to them why they
should pay their taxes, and as I show them this plainly,
they will be glad that the Bureau has sent me and there
will be no more difficulty.” Sometimes he will
drop into English, and he was very proud of his English.
“Dis
Irish I will na’ tak her by the t’roat an’
curse it; when I go onto de ’ouse I will be urban,
I will say ‘you ’av been badly tret my frent,
when I tink ’bout dat it mak my tear burn; but
you shod pay de tax. And I will kees de babie,—manifique
babie,—I will tol de mudder. My Heaven! de wole
of Hull know ’bout dat manifique babie! And when
de people see hes not goin’ ’a be choke
by de t’roat he say Mr. Plamondon, you are one
vera good genelman, not anoder juss same as you. Then
she’s bring her money hout of where she hide it,
and she’s pay me all de back tax, and me go over
the wole Stag Creek parish dat way wit no trouble ’tall.
What? Guess so? Eh?" At this the eyes of Terrance
O’Halloran twinkled more than ever.
A few days
later he was warning his neighbours in his slow drawl,
without a smile:
“There’s
a gintleman from below goin’ to call upon ye,
and yese’ll have to pay yer taxes fur shure.”
“Will
we that, now Terence? And why fur shure?”
“He’s
a Frinch gintleman by the name Plamondon, and it’s
the shtile af him as ’ill be the ruinetion af
yese. The tongue in his head will call a burd af the
bush. The manners af him is iligant. I heard him down
at Goyette’s, and if I hadn’t left me pocketbook
on the piana and hadn’t nothin’ in me mit
but a dirty quarter I’d ha’ payed him me
taxes on the spot.”
“Well
Terry, me brave boy, he’ll come to ye furst, and
if he gits by ye, the whole Township ’ill pay
him and pray fur him.”
“Sorry
I am the day I iver squatted where I did,” said
Terry, “and many a salty tear I’ll shed,
fur he’s sure to come it over poor Terence O’Halloran,
and that’ll be a cold day fur Stag Creek wid all
the dirty taxes paid up. Sure [Page 126]
me house is the furst in the Township, and it’s
meself must be first to meet the Plamondon wid his ways
and his smiles of politeness.”
Meantime Mons.
Plamondon had talked so much about his mission that
when he found himself ready to start from Hull, he was
the centre of a circle of admiring adherents. He wore
his best, as the expedition had to his mind a diplomatic
character. His tall silk hat, black clothes and bright
red necktie gave him a festive appearance. It was a
beautiful September morning. The leaves had just begun
to turn and the moderate air was full of sunshine and
life. As Mons. Plamondon had a good horse it was not
many hours before he found himself in the Township of
Low, through which Stag Creek runs, and soon after he
drew up before Terrance O’Halloran’s. He
observed a scurry of children into the house and he
saw a woman come to the door and look out. Mons. Plamondon
was gratified; he felt that already he had created a
sensation. He drove into the barnyard and tied his horse
to a ring in the log wall of the stable. A few hens
scuttled away from his feet. A small, lean, solitary-looking
pig which was rooting about in the straw paused as Mons.
Plamondon went by. It had a tousle of hair between its
ears, a roguish eye twinkling in a pink eye-socket and
a pucker of wrinkles around its jaw. It seemed to smile
as the tax collector went up to the door.
When Mons.
Plamondon looked into the house he saw Mrs. O’
Halloran preparing the noon-day meal, a sizzle of bacon
was in the pan and its aroma on the air. Her back was
turned toward him. She was in her bare feet and wore
a short drugget skirt and a loose print blouse. She
turned about promptly when he asked if Mr. O’Halloran
was at home.
“He is
that, Sor.”
“Me,
I’m Plamondon of Hull.”
“You
don’t mean to tell me,” cried Nora, turning
fully toward him. “Shure I thot it was yerself,
Sor, when the childer rushed in and sid the Prince of
Wales was comin’ up the road. Sez I to myself,
shure as the pork’s in the pan it’s Mr.
Plamondon himself. Take the weight aff your legs;”
indicating a chair with the point of a two-pronged fork
with which she had been turning the pork. Mons. Plamondon
took the chair. The children had disappeared, but he
could hear them snickering in their hiding-place. Only
the infant remained. She was rolling on the floor, clothed
in a single garment, her face covered with treacle.
When Mons. Plamondon sat down she began to crawl toward
his boots on all fours. Mrs. O’Halloran turned
again to her work of minding the dinner.
“It’s
jest this mornin’ we was spaking af ye, Sor; sez
I, Terry, de ye think the Hon. Mr. Plamondon will be
comin’ the day? Niver a bit, sez he; we’d
[Page 127] ha’ seed it on the
paper and the Leftenant Guvnor we’d hav’
writ to Father Burke about the same. De ye think now,
sez he, that a man like Mr. Plamondon is goin’
about wid a bushel basket over his head?”
Turning her
head she saw the progress of the small child toward
the shiny boots. “Come out o’ that now,
Honora,” she cried, “come out o’ that
or I’ll go there and warm ye, ye boul lump ye.”
Whereupon Honora rested.
“Ye mayn’t
mind me, sez I to O’Halloran, but there is a fine
lookin’ man in me taycup, and Mr. Plamondon may
turn up the day unexpected like, like a tief in the
night, as Father Burke would say—God bless him!”
Plamondon wondered at the cordiality of his reception;
he was prepared to use civility, but overwhelmed by
this ready flattery he could not command his English.
“I did
not tink it necessare to make an announcement.”
“Necessare—Niver
a bit; we’re as glad to see ye as if ye came wid
a brass bugle and a barrel drum. And when I caught ye
wid me eye, sez I, Terry me boy, be ready for the Guvment
man, whip down below and sphade up the mustherd tin
where we hid the tax money; and down he went like one
’a them duck-divers at Mud Lake, and he hasn’t
come up agin. Terry,” she called, approaching
an open trap door in the floor, “is it all night
yer goin’ to be?” The voice of Terry was
heard in imprecation from below.
“Maybe,
Mr. Plamondon, ye wudn’t mind condischending to
sthep below and see the ould man himself, and then ye’ll
both be comin’ up to have a bite o’ vittles.”
Jacques rose
gallantly and descended the steep stairs, little better
than a ladder, into the gloom, carefully guarding his
tall hat. Just as his foot touched the earth there was
a flash of light and the noise of a door opened and
shut. He heard the bang of the trap-door, the light
was cut off from above, and at the shock his hat bounded
into the thick darkness.
“Sapriste?”
he cried. “Mr. O’Halloran, I canna see mesel’.”
No one answered him. There was a sound of a scuffle
of feet overhead, then silence. Mons. Plamondon felt
about him in the dark, and as he became accustomed to
it he discovered light breaking in through the cracks
in a door which evidently communicated with the barnyard.
But this door was securely fastened, so was the trap-door
in the floor. He was a prisoner. He shuffled cautiously
over the uneven earth-floor seeking his precious hat,
but without success. He could find nothing in the cellar
but a bunch of straw in one corner. He climbed the ladder
and beat upon the floor with his fist and shouted till
his throat felt as if it was raw, but no one paid any
attention. [Page 128]
He heard the
chairs drawn up to the table, the clatter and yammer
of the children, the bland voice of Nora, and a short
grunt or two from Terry himself. He began to feel the
pangs of hunger, for he had had a long drive in the
fresh air; but he heard in despair the sound of the
dishes being washed and put away. The afternoon wore
on, and from sheer weariness he fell asleep on the heap
of pea-straw.
He was awakened
by a violent stamping and shuffling overhead, cries
and the grind of a fiddle. All Stag Creek had been invited
to a dance at Terrance O’Halloran’s; all
Stag Creek had accepted and was dancing above the head
of the defeated Plamondon. Hour after hour the rout
went on. The fiddle never stopped and Jacques could
hear the talk of the boys when they came out into the
night to take a pull at the bottle.
It must have
been nearing morning when the unfortunate tax collector
felt that he could stand it no longer. He had found
under the pea-straw an elm stake, sharpened at one end,
such as is commonly used on a wood-sleigh. Seizing this
he thrust its point with all his force up against the
floor. The stake struck between two boards; it went
through; six inches of it appeared in the room above.
The noise and the dancing ceased together. There was
a pause as if for an explanation. Then he heard Terry’s
voice, “Ladies, it’s the card of Monshure
Plamondon, of Hull, callin’ upon yese.”
“Hurroo!”
There was a shout of laughter and the dance went on,
madder than ever. But another day was breaking, and
by and by the company began to disperse. Before long
the only sound which Mons. Plamondon heard from the
room above was the snoring of some one who was unable
to carry his load of the good potheen, which was made
up in the hills, not a day’s journey from Terry’s
door.
As he listened
he passed into forgetfulness of his sorrows and dozed
on his straw; when he awoke the door was open and the
broad daylight was struggling into the cellar. Without
waiting to look for his hat Mons. Plamondon rushed out.
His horse was standing harnessed and impatient, for
he had been well fed and groomed. Mons. Plamondon had
been twenty-four hours without food and he yearned for
the flesh-pots of “Moore’s,” the nearest
hostelry. He leaped into his cart and, as he was, hatless,
his clothing covered with mould and wisps of pea-straw,
he never drew rein until he reached “Moore’s.”
Then he asked for “three fingers of gin,”
and got it.
For a week
there was a pilgrimage to Terrance O’Halloran’s
to see Mons. Plamondon’s card; even Father Burke
came to see it. Then it had to be removed for the convenience
of the family. But Terry still shows the headgear of
Plamondon. It hangs amid his household gods, under the
picture of the holy St. Patrick who drove the snakes
out of Ireland. [Page 129]
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