Son of a Hundred Kings

Thomas Costain

• Publisher: Rare Treasure Editions
• Year: 2021
• ISBN:
  9781774644881
• Topic: Literature
• Subtopic: Historical Fiction
• Index: Literature

The title originating from Kipling's poem "The Absent-Minded Beggar", is a story about life in Balfour, Ontario in the 1890's. A six-year-old boy arrives from England with a square of oil-cloth sewn on his coat bearing the inscription: 'This is Ludar Prentice. He has no money. He is going to his father Vivien Prentice at Balfour, Ontario, Canada. BE KIND TO HIM.' He was to join a father that he had never met, and that no one in town had ever heard of. Fortunately, some kind citizens stepped in and he was offered a home. Never quite fitting in, he lived with them until adulthood where he is determined to find out who he is. The story is not only about Ludar, but it is also about the folks in Balfour and how the town of Balfour grows and changes into the new century.

Book One

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Chapter I

1

There was so much happening on this cold, clear New Year’s Day that it is difficult to decide where the story should begin. There was, first and foremost, the arrival of the boy from England. Boys were arriving from England all the time, but there were quite special circumstances in connection with this one. There was also the tragedy which occurred late in the afternoon. As the annals of the small city of Balfour were plain and simple in the main, any death by violence was bound to create complications and much trouble. In addition there were several lesser happenings, any one of which might do well enough as a starting point. A tussle broke out between two small boys during a Sunday-school party at the ivy-covered home of the minister, of all places. Drygoodsman McGregor, sitting proudly in his office immediately behind the life-sized statue of himself which adorned the front of the store and projected out above his famous sign, Lockie McGregor, The Remarkable Man, made a resolution to which he would adhere, being a man of stern fiber, through thick and thin. Finally, there was Police Magistrate Jenkinson, grumbling in front of his fire and dictating the whole course of the story by delaying the special session of his court until late afternoon.

Perhaps, therefore, it would be best to start with the day itself. It was one of considerable importance, being the first day of the year 1890 and so the official start of a fabulous period which would come to be called in course of time the Gay Nineties. It may have been that Nature knew in advance about this absurd but rather pleasant decade which was getting under way and felt a sense of responsibility. At any rate, this first day had been given a setting such as never could have been achieved by sentimental Christmas card or sugary valentine. A heavy snow had turned the world white, and there was a sun as cold and brilliant as a finely cut diamond (and which, at a later hour, would paint the horizon as red as the nose of Santa Claus). It was indeed a perfect day to usher in the years when things would be so proper on the surface and so naughty underneath, when taste would be represented by curlicues and architectural gingerbread, when great moist tears would drip from the notes of popular songs; when, finally, people would be firmly convinced that civilization had achieved the absolute peak of perfection and nothing would ever change again.

It was strange that this conviction of a static world should have been so general, for these years were to see the start of the greatest changes the poor old globe had ever experienced. South of the border, in a workshop filled with curious machines, a silent man was putting the final touches to a magic cylinder which would hum and rasp and squeak with a human voice. In a very short time thereafter two brothers would be running a bicycle shop and dreaming of getting much closer than Icarus to the sun and stars. Strips of celluloid were being made which would flow through a contraption like a glorified magic lantern and would cause figures on a screen to move. In a very few years there would be a race of horseless carriages from Paris to Bordeaux and back at an average speed of fifteen miles an hour!

Still more fateful, still more threatening to the peace and content of this seemingly unchangeable world, the gay ten years were to see underground movements starting, hatreds festering along Slavic rivers and Balkan mountains, black smoke belching from the tall chimneys of Essen and Skoda, and Pomeranian grenadiers goose-stepping with feverish haste. There was no hint of all this on the surface, nor would there be until after the turn of the century. People were to go on singing, laughing, eating three huge meals a day, and sleeping like tops, without any suspicion at all that dark buds were beginning to sprout on the vines of wrath.

There was less suspicion perhaps in Balfour than in any other part. This busy western Ontario city had a life so completely and passionately its own that a meeting of the Bicycling Club or a fire on Holbrook Street was of much more concern than all the rumors circulating in all the chancelleries of Europe.

2

The conductor of the express train from Montreal walked through a succession of close-smelling Pullman cars until he reached the first of the day coaches. It was a few minutes past seven only, but most of the passengers had aroused themselves already from their uneasy slumbers on the straight-up-and-down seats and were gazing with apathetic eyes at the white landscape. The whining voices of children and the scolding tones of harassed mothers filled the coach. He did not pause until he reached a seat occupied by a small boy and a small satchel of red carpet.

“Well, Ludar,” he said in a cheerful voice. “And how are you this morning?”

“I’m well, sir,” answered the boy in a high, English voice.

He was a thin little fellow, between six and seven years old, and wearing on his white and pinched face an expression of the utmost unhappiness. His clothes consisted of a belted coat and knickerbockers of gray corduroy, badly rumpled and travel-stained, and heavy shoes with brass on the toes to prevent scuffing. Pulling himself together out of deference to authority, he sat up very straight in the seat.

“But you were sick during the night, I hear.”

The boy nodded. It was apparent that he feared this great man in peaked cap and shiny braid would decide on some form of punishment for him. “The food came up again,” he explained. In an attempt at extenuation he added, “I get sick very easy, sir.”

He might have gone on to say that it had been like this ever since he got off the boat at that big city called Halifax and started taking trains. There had always been people around him, asking questions and staring as though he had come right out of a zoo; mostly ladies with faces which were stern though they tried to be friendly, telling him what to do and waiting severely until he obeyed. Generally it had been about food. Everyone assumed that he was on the point of starvation and that it was their duty to take him off the train at the first opportunity and ply him with dishes he did not like. It did not matter how much he protested that he was not hungry. He must be hungry, a boy traveling alone like this without anyone to look after him. So, off the train he would be marched, to sit on a high stool in a station restaurant. The food was always the same: ham, which he disliked; eggs, which made him sick; and greasy fried potatoes, which turned his stomach at the first glance—all of it washed down by a bitter-tasting drink called coffee, which scalded his throat. Eating had never been a pleasure anyway because most foods disagreed with him. However, he would swallow as much as he could, which was never enough to satisfy the persistent benevolence which was paying fifteen or twenty cents to stuff him full. He would be led back to the coach in a disapproving silence which made it clear that he had been ungrateful.

As soon as the train started, of course, he would be sick. Unfortunately his weak stomach was not considerate enough to manifest its symptoms gradually so that things could be taken care of in time. Instead there would be a violent retching and all the unwelcome food would be transferred to the world around him, most particularly to his own clothes. A man in uniform, with a disgusted look on his face and a pail of water and a mop in his hands, would come along and say: “Again, eh! You dirty little devil, you!” While the work of cleaning up proceeded, Ludar would lie back on the hard seat, pale and sick and so ashamed of himself that he would turn away when anyone passed.

The conductor squatted on the opposite seat, holding in the air the small gadget which served as the badge of his trade and clicking it busily as he talked, as though punching a rapid succession of tickets. “You’re going to meet your father in Balfour, eh?” he began. “Well, you’re a lucky boy, I guess. It’s a fine city. It’s jam-full of factories and growing like sixty. There’s plenty of chances there for boys who want to get out early and make a little money. And you’ll be having a good start, Ludar. The money the passengers on the boat collected for you has hardly been touched because so many people wanted to be kind to you and buy your meals themselves. I have a matter of eleven dollars and sixty-five cents right here in my pocket for you which I’ll hand over to the conductor of the train at T’ronto. He’ll take you on to Balfour. It will be on the Grand Trunk—but I’m afraid that can’t be helped. It’s the only way to get to that town. He will hand it over to your father when you arrive. I guess eleven dollars will come in handy, eh?”

“Yes, sir,” said the boy. He had heard the word dollar used a great deal since arriving in this country and knew it had to do with money. He wondered why these people never spoke of shillings and pence.

“You’ll get there around noon,” went on the conductor, nodding his head and continuing to use the tone he would employ with another adult. “Your father will be right there on the platform, waiting for you. One of the high mucky-mucks in Toronto will send him a telegram today, saying you’re due to arrive. I guess you’ll be glad to see him again.”

“I’ve never seen my father, sir.”

The conductor looked startled. “Never seen him? Well, that does beat the Dutch! Coming out all this distance alone to find a father you’ve never as much as laid an eye on! You are a game little rooster!”

Ludar had been thinking over what the man in the peaked cap had told him. “Won’t I be on trains any more after today, sir?”

“That’s exactly what I mean, Ludar. You’ll be home at noon or thereabouts today.”

“Will I be able to sleep in a bed again, sir? And have baths like I used to?”

“Yep. You’ll sleep in a fine warm bed and have as many baths as you want. What do you think of that?”

What the boy thought was apparent from the look of delight in his eyes. They were blue eyes and, because he had lost weight during his long journey, they seemed to overshadow the rest of his face.

“And I think, my lad,” went on the official, “that you really need that last item very much by this time.”

On the seat beside the conductor were a few presents which well-intentioned passengers had given the lonely traveler. There were a tin pail and a wooden shovel which an elderly lady had contributed, saying that they would be useful “on one of his little holidays.” Ludar did not know what holidays were, but he treasured the pail particularly because it had on it a picture of a boy and a dog. The dog was a perky little animal and he called it Dribbler, after one which had visited his neighborhood occasionally. The boy he called Albert Edward, having heard that name mentioned in adult conversation and thinking it a very fine one indeed. In addition there was a paper-covered book about Canada which might interest him conceivably in another ten years, and a small wooden caboose which had once formed part of a toy train.

“Am I to keep these, sir?” he asked.

“They were give to you.” The conductor nodded his head. “They’re your property now, Ludar, to do with as you like. Not that the people who handed ’em to you had any great rush of generosity to the heart, as you might say.” He dropped the ticket punch into a vest pocket which was lined with tape to keep it from fraying. “We’ll be getting in very soon now. To the city of Toronto. Where I live myself, Ludar, and a fine city it is.”

People were beginning to open parcels of food and eat breakfast. Across the aisle a family of five had a large basket, and the mother started to hand out salmon sandwiches to the three children until the father, who had a beard like a broom, said, “Margaret!” in a shocked voice and then proceeded to say a long grace in a resonant tone.

The conductor began, “After you’ve had your breakfast——”

“Oh, please, sir, might I go without breakfast today?” asked the English boy in a pleading voice.

The conductor had risen to his feet and was on the point of leaving. He stopped and frowned uncertainly. “No one goes without breakfast, sonny. It’s the best meal of the day. Starts you off with a good solid foundation. You’ll never amount to a row of beans if you don’t eat big breakfasts. And then there’s this eleven dollars and sixty-five cents. I’m responsible for using it to see that you never miss a meal.” He sniffed and gave the end of his nose a pinch with finger and thumb. “On the other hand, there’s no sense having you sick when you get on the train for Balfour and—and sort of giving the passengers a bad impression of you. I tell you what, Ludar. You drink a glass of milk at the station and we’ll call that a breakfast. Does milk come up on you like solid food?”

“I don’t think so, sir.”

“Well, then, you drink a glass of milk and then you say out good and loud, so everyone will hear you, that you don’t want anything more. That will relieve me of responsibility for letting you go hungry with your own funds in my pocket. Then I’ll hand you over to Pete Handy, who’ll be in charge of your train. He will take you in hand and see you get there safe and sound.”

“Yes, sir.” The boy reached for the toys on the opposite seat. “I better be getting ready, sir.”

“No hurry about that. We won’t be in for another twenty, twenty-five minutes. I’ll come back for you myself.”

3

This nightmare of greasy meals and of sleeping on the hard carpet of train seats with the satchel as a pillow, this continual parading of people past him who stopped and stared and discussed him loudly as though he did not exist or at any rate had no feelings to be hurt, had been going on so long that everything else was getting hazy. There had been little enough which was pleasant to remember. Most of his life had been lived with a stern woman called Aunt Callie, in a single room of a house filled with adults who liked to give her advice about him. Aunt Callie went out during the day to a library where she was employed in the repair of books, and so he had spent most of his waking hours alone or penned up in a dreary yard at the back of the house. The lady who owned the house, Mrs. Griffen, gave him his lunch, which consisted of a sandwich, a cup of tea, and a sound rap on the top of his head with a thimble-covered finger.

There had been plenty of things to make his life trying. No one would answer questions, and of course boys of this particular age are little better than animated interrogation points. Everyone was particularly reticent when his queries had to do with himself. Aunt Callie would frown and put a callused finger to her lips or she would say sharply, “That will do, Ludar!” He had ceased, it seemed, to have any name but Ludar because his aunt became quite ferocious if he made use of the rest of it.

This phase of things had started, he believed, on the day when they came to this dismal boardinghouse. Aunt Callie had taken him first to an office, a dark room filled with huge leather books and presses for the storing of letters. Ludar had been instructed to seat himself in a deep chair in a corner. His legs sticking out straight in front of him, he sat there without moving a muscle and watched an old man talk to Aunt Callie. This old man had eyes so dark and penetrating that the boy was frightened when they turned in his direction. The conversation was carried on...