Chapter XVIII: BREAK o'Day

Break o'Day is one of the oldest villages in Jackson County. It had its store and its school-house before the first building was erected in Sharptown or Oakville. The derivation of its name has been the subject of many inquiries, which have been answered by local antiquarians. The founders of the hamlet, like the majority of Michigan pioneers, came from New York. Four families built their houses neat together, that they might enjoy the society of neighbors. Others followed from the Empire State, and the neighborhood became thinly settled. They had dwelt on the eastern hills, where, unobstructed, a view extended for miles. They were now in the midst of woods, where they could view no distant object unless it were above the timber. Month after month they lived in this manner, and daily the complaints grew louder. The women, who had been accustomed to habits of thrift, longed to see the sun rise once more. They declared it was nothing but laziness which allowed them to be penned up in that fashion, that if they were men, they would chop out at least one place wide enough to give them a sight through the forest. Urged on by their wives, the men made a bee and hewed to the eastward a road through which the earliest beams of the daily luminary might shine. The next morning the entire population of the locality gathered to witness the blaze of light which slowly appeared above the long stretch of stumps. Shouts resounded, guns were fired, a feast was spread, and the place was promptly named Break o'Day.

The village never grew to the dimensions which were anticipated for it by its first builders. Twenty years ago its appearance was substantially as it is to-day. It was built on five corners from which ran roads, one to each cardinal point of the compass and one southeast to Sharptown. The greater part of the buildings were on the triangle formed by the eastern and south-eastern streets and the cross street which connected them. These streets were named in order, Warren, Jackson and Washington. On Warren were the church and the school-house; on Jackson, Birch and Bigney's store and the hotel; on Washington, the hardware store and the blacksmith-shop. Marion, running northward, could boast only of dwelling-houses. The drugstore of Dr. Rorus was the one building of importance on the west road, which, on account of its shade trees, the villagers named Maple Street, but which the farmers in derision called Scrub Avenue. This edifice was painted yellow, had a high square front, a shed roof, and bore the following inscription, "I. J. H. Rorus, M. D., Physician and Surgeon."

On the morning which succeeded the night of John Wrengell's sojourn in the swamp, Dr. Rorus opened his drugstore in good season for the purpose of taking his indispensable dram. The doctor had won the reputation of being always drunk, and, intentionally or unintentionally, he preserved his notoriety.

The streets were, as yet, traversed by few people. Most of the inhabitants were eating breakfast. The stores, however, were open, and from the blacksmith-shop came the energetic clinking of a hammer.

Rorus went behind his counter and poured out a glass of spirits, which he swallowed with relish. Repeating the potations at frequent intervals, he managed to get himself well under the influence of liquor.

His first caller was an agent who had lodged at the hotel and who was canvassing for a paper which had recently started in Oakville.

"Subscribe for a paper in Oakville?" said the doctor. "No, sir, not if every bottle of ink and every sheet of paper and every letter of type and every press were concentrated in that nest of infamy, Oakville."

"I didn't know there was such a feeling here toward Oakville," said the agent.

"Ah, sir," replied Rorus, "you talk of prejudice. Let me recite facts to you and history, history that shall dispel doubt 'like mists that rise before the sun.' Like the fogs that roll upward from our noble swamp, or mosquitoes that fly before--when there's a smudge. We helped Oakville with her fair, and that was all right. This year we wanted a celebration, and she said, 'We won't have any.' We got up one, and what did Oakville do? She turned right square around and got up too, and we couldn't get any crowd. What did she do it for? For the money. For the trade. Think of it, speculating on the Fourth of July. On what day? Remember, no common day, but on that glorious, that immortal, that never-to-be-forgotten day, when American liberty reached its culmination, its pinnacle, its apex, its--high as it could get. What do you think of that recreant, that rascal who can on that day even think of, or reach out his hand to clutch ten cents, or one dollar, or ten dollars. And yet, I grieve to say that in this land, consecrated to the rights of humanity, such men exist. They are in Oakville. They live, they breathe, they taint the pure air of freedom."

The drizzling rain of the preceding day had forced a temporary suspension of haying, so that the store began to be populated by loungers from the near farms as well as from the village.

"Doctor," said a man, who carried a large black bottle, "my wife is sick and I'd like to get some medicine."

"Very well," replied the doctor. "These men forget who their fathers were. They are not like the citizens of Break o'Day. Break o'Day remembers. Do you see that street yonder? That is Warren, and Warren sleeps on Bunker Hill."

"But, Doctor," urged the man with the bottle, "my wife is bad off, and she's got to have some spirits."

"Yes, yes, just so," Rorus responded. "Do you see the church? That is on Jackson Street. Break o'Day remembers Old Hickory. Oh, he was the man for you! Well, he was. Firm, immovable, rigid, had a backbone. Right up yonder is Washington Street. Break o'Day remembers the Father of his Country. Oh, that George Washington, greatest man in all history, very greatest. The French shot at him. The Indians shot at him. The cold December and January and February (yes, at that's the coldest of the whole), they nipped at his feet. But did they hurt him? No, sir."

"Doctor," protested the waiting customer, "my wife is awful sick."

"I'll wait on you in just a minute," said the physician.

"Who would make a good correspondent for this place?" inquired the Oakville agent, wishing to gain information before Rorus recommenced his harangue.

"Well," answered the doctor, "there's Ned Sturgis over in the post-office. He's a mighty smart fellow. Posted right up to the handle. You couldn't do any better than to get him. Then, there's my clerk, Fred Loomis, he's a bright one. Smart as steel. You never noticed him, did you? He'd pick up everything there was going. Quick-witted, you know. Catches on to anything before other folks have a glimpse of it. I wouldn't wonder if he's the best one you'll run across, Ned Sturgis is good. I sha'n't say which is the best. My clerk, though, he is A number one. You don't know what the boy is till you are acquainted with him. Now, I sha'n't say which is the best. But, of the two, of the two, my clerk's a le-etle--le-etle--I sha'n't draw any distinction."

"Doctor," said the impatient man, "If you can't wait on me, I'm going over to Sullivan's. I know I can get it there."

"Yes, immediately," replied the doctor. "You are sure your wife is sick?"

"I should think so. She like to have died this morning,"

"I have to be particular," said Rorus; "I can't sell only for medicinal purposes."

"Sullivan ain't so particular," said the customer. "I can go there any time an' get all the whisky I want."

"That is a disgrace to Break o'Day," commented the doctor. "That reproach to society, that den of iniquity, that abominable hole, should be closed up. To whom are they selling? To the merchant, to the farmer, to the clerk, to the business man, to the mechanic, to the laborer, to the agriculturist, to--lots of 'em. And yet, Michigan, mind you, no common State, but the Wolverine State, has enacted a law that no intoxicating beverage shall be sold except for medicinal purposes."

"Say, I'd like to see you a minute," remarked a man, coming close to the physician.

"That you can," replied the doctor. "Right this way."

"I've got the ague," said the man in a low tone, when they had gone to the back of the store, "and I want something to break it up. I'd like to get some quinine and whisky."

"Good idea," assented Rorus. "Grand thing for ague, this quinquina. I have it pure, too. I'll put them up separately and let you mix them, eh?"

The next event was the arrival of Wingscheut with his shambling limp.

"Helloa, Wingscheut," was the salutation of Jimmy Martin. "Have you been hunting horse-thieves or bears lately? Set down and give us a story."

"No," sturdily replied the German, "I'fe cot to see te toctor."

"Why," inquired Martin, "be you sick?"

"No," answered Wingscheut, "unt I ton't vant to pe sick. Tat's te reason I see te toctor. I vass pit vith a massauker 'unt I must have some visky."

"I want to speak a word with you," said a youth of not more than twenty, after Wingscheut had obtained his liquor.

"Come this way," said the doctor, going immediately to his consultation room.

"I'm at work on a marsh where there's lots of rattlesnakes," said the youth. "I'm afraid I'll be bit and maybe not get help till it's too late. I wish you'd let me have a pint of whisky."

"Can't do that," returned Rorus. "Can't do it possibly. It's against the law."

"I know it," pleaded the youth, "but maybe I'll die if you don't. You let the rest have it. I do my trading here, that is, everything you keep. I'll have to go somewhere else if you can't accommodate me a little."

"Human life," said the doctor, "must be preserved. Laws are for humanity. Humanity first and laws afterward. You can have it. But mind you don't lisp it outside the store."

Wingscheut, wishing a change of society, wandered to another part of the village.

Two men in an open buggy came driving rapidly from the west. One of them tied the horse quickly, and they entered the drugstore. The half-drunken crowd saw nothing unusual in their haste, but Rorus, intoxicated as he was, perceived that they had not the serenity of the Break o'Day loungers.

"Well, Whipple," said the physician, "what's the news up your way? Everything quiet, s'rene, like a great ship sailing peacefully along with her sails outspread to the breeze of heaven?"

"It ain't been very quiet," responded Whipple. "My bay colt was stole last night, that I wouldn't have took two hundred dollars for."

The loungers arose. Rorus advanced from behind the counter. The stupor on the sottish faces gave place to excitement as Whipple related how he had become apprised of the theft.

"I've had him locked up in the barn nights ever since last winter for fear he would be stole. Along the fore part of the summer I slept in the barn. But lately I hadn't heard so much about such business, so I got of my guard. This morning I says to my hired man, 'Ben, if your hand's sore, maybe I'd better milk and let you tend to the horses.' 'All right,' says Ben, 'my hand is purty sore to milk.' I went to the house and s'posed everything was all right. After breakfast I says to Ben, 'Did you turn Jack out' 'No,' says Ben, 'didn't you?' 'No,' says I, 'I ain't been in the stable.' 'That's funny,' says Ben. 'It was unlocked.' We went out there, and sure enough he was gone. And it's just the same as the rest of 'em. We can't find his tracks. Something ought to be done. We've stood this stealing as long as we can. There's a whole gang of the thieves around, and they ought to be broke up."

"I'd like to see one of 'em git caught," said the flaxen-whiskered man, the same who the night of the hunt had quarreled with Ratke over the proposed punishment of the horse-thieves. "He'd be made short work of. The hull country's worked up, and they'd string a man, too, quick. What are you goin' to do about catchin' your colt?"

"I don't know what to do," replied Whipple. "I thought, though, that I'd go around and inquire and have my neighbors do the same. They've gone now from around my way. I'll go over to my brother-in-law's Bill Briggses, and he'll turn out. Maybe by going far enough some of us can hear where he's gone to."

The general attention was directed to a quarrel between Jimmy Martin and the youth who had used so much persuasion to obtain the bottle of whisky. Martin had stepped on the toes of the youth, whose name was Blake. Blake complained of the act and was told that he was a liar. He demanded an apology, which Martin refused to give. Thereupon he threw off hia coat and vest, rolled up his shirt-sleeves, unbuttoned and turned down his shirt-collar and advanced in fighting attitude toward Martin, who made no preparation for the attack.

Dr. Rorus passed around the large round stove to separate the disputants. Grabbing each by the collar, he exclaimed, "What! Gen'lemen! Quarreling in a time of public danger, when the welfare and the safety of the community is at stake! Quarreling when our property and our rights and our sacred honor are at stake! For it's a question of honor, gen'lemen. You'll all say it's dishonorable to steal horses, won't you? Then it's dishonorable to let 'em be stole. Do you know what town you're in? Break o'Day, and Break o'Day has the fires of patriotism. You should be ready to leave off and lay aside and forget, you know, your little feuds and animosities. Would George Washington have stopped for a little fuss at Yorktown? Would Joseph Warren have paused for a racket, just a common blow up, I mean, on the sacred soil of Bunker Hill? Do you suppose, my dear sir, that Mad Anthony Wayne would have stopped charging up Stony Point because some one stepped on his toe? Others may wrangle in a time of public calamity, but," he concluded with a leonine roar, "I. J. H. Rorus, never, no, never."

"You won't have to go to Bill's, Whipple," said the flaxen-whiskered man. "There he comes now."

"Well, Bill," said Whipple, as soon as the new-comer was in their midst, "I've lost my bay colt."

"I guess not," replied Briggs, at whose house Wrengell had stopped for breakfast. "He's in my barn now."

"No," cried Whipple. "Where did you find him?"

"In my field tagging after a fellow that come from the swamp. He said he got lost, and your colt followed him."

"I don't believe no such yarn," exclaimed Whipple. "He stole him, and the cold got away. What did he say about it, any way?"

Briggs, with considerable exaggeration, gave an account of his interview with John, dwelling particularly on the way in which the latter had withheld his name and place of residence. "He was covered with mud from head to foot," said Briggs, "and he had scratches on his face and hands. I'm inclined to think he and his pards had a disagreement. It wouldn't be strange if that's how he come to roll in the mud and get the scratches. While he was eating, I skipped around through the fields and come here."

The drugstore was in a state of tumult. The chairs were deserted, and the men stood, some lethargic with drink, some talking boisterously and urging immediate action.

"We'll go right down there and get him," said Whipple, "and we'll hear what he has to say for himself. If he can't tell a straight story, he may as say his prayers."

"That's the talk," exclaimed the flaxen-whiskered man. "We may just as well make an example of him. That's what we swore to do with the first one we caught."

"We ain't sure that he stole him," said Briggs, who was alarmed at the effect his words were producing, and who that day learned to his regret that it is easier to incite than to appease the fury of a drunken mob. "I don't know but most any one would look suspicious if he was mudded up and scratched up that way."

"Trot out your rope," yelled young Blake. "Less be a-going."

"Now, doctor," said Whipple, "it's my treat. I want you to set out the best you've got for the boys, a glass around. This kind of a thing don't happen very often, you know."

"Exceptions to all rules," commented Rorus. "Yes, I'll do it once, Whipple. It's like violating the constitution, that grand instrument, that bundle of wisdom, a heap in it, too. You can do that when it's a military necessity. This is a civil necessity."

"There he is coming now," said Briggs, when the glasses which had been set out by Rorus had been drained. "But I wouldn't be too rough on him boys. I'd turn him over to the law."

"No law to-day," replied the flaxen-whiskered man.