Son of a Hundred Kings

Thomas Costain

Description

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.

Sujets

• Fiction
• Historical

Informations

• Publié par: Rare Treasure Editions
• Date de parution: 23 novembre 2021
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781774644881
• Langue: English

Extrait

First published in 1950.
This edition published by Rare Treasures.
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S ON OF A HUNDRED KINGS


by

THOMAS COSTAIN
W ith the exception of actual historical personages identifiedas such, the characters are entirely the product of the author’s imaginationand have no relation to any person in real life.
To
THOMAS COSTAIN STEINMETZ
My Grandson
Author’s Note
A few readers will recognize, no doubt, the general background againstwhich this story is told. A still smaller number may identify certain traitsin the characters who play parts in it. I hasten to state, therefore, that thestory itself is completely fictitious, that it does not grow out of anythingwhich occurred in the town in question or, so far as I know, in any otherpart of the world; except that many years ago a case was reported of aboy being sent alone across the Atlantic without funds and with a sign onhis back. There have been feuds between brothers since the days of Cainand Abel, and the involvement of innocent bystanders in crime goesalmost as far back.
Although I have drawn on a few experiences of my own, I disclaimautobiographical intent and desire to explain that, with a single exception(and that exception easily recognizable to a few), no relative of mineappears on the stage. Perhaps I should be more explicit and say thatAunt Tilly, the life partner of the one exception, bears no resemblancewhatever to the gentle little woman who was chiefly responsible for myadvent into this world. Old friends and acquaintances may catch occasionalflashes of themselves: the characters in the story nevertheless arecomposite figures, as in practically all fiction, a rag from one quarter, abone from another, a hank of hair from somewhere else, conceived andconstructed to play certain necessary parts.
Thomas B. Costain

Lakeville, Conn.
April 27, 1950.
Book One
Chapter I
1
There was so much happening on this cold, clear New Year’s Day that itis difficult to decide where the story should begin. There was, first andforemost, the arrival of the boy from England. Boys were arriving fromEngland all the time, but there were quite special circumstances in connectionwith this one. There was also the tragedy which occurred late inthe afternoon. As the annals of the small city of Balfour were plain andsimple in the main, any death by violence was bound to create complicationsand much trouble. In addition there were several lesser happenings,any one of which might do well enough as a starting point. A tussle brokeout between two small boys during a Sunday-school party at the ivy-coveredhome of the minister, of all places. Drygoodsman McGregor,sitting proudly in his office immediately behind the life-sized statue ofhimself which adorned the front of the store and projected out above hisfamous sign, Lockie McGregor, The Remarkable Man , made a resolutionto which he would adhere, being a man of stern fiber, through thick andthin. Finally, there was Police Magistrate Jenkinson, grumbling in frontof his fire and dictating the whole course of the story by delaying thespecial session of his court until late afternoon.
Perhaps, therefore, it would be best to start with the day itself. It wasone of considerable importance, being the first day of the year 1890 and sothe official start of a fabulous period which would come to be called incourse of time the Gay Nineties. It may have been that Nature knew inadvance about this absurd but rather pleasant decade which was gettingunder way and felt a sense of responsibility. At any rate, this first day hadbeen given a setting such as never could have been achieved by sentimentalChristmas card or sugary valentine. A heavy snow had turned theworld white, and there was a sun as cold and brilliant as a finely cutdiamond (and which, at a later hour, would paint the horizon as red asthe nose of Santa Claus). It was indeed a perfect day to usher in the yearswhen things would be so proper on the surface and so naughty underneath,when taste would be represented by curlicues and architecturalgingerbread, when great moist tears would drip from the notes of popularsongs; when, finally, people would be firmly convinced that civilizationhad achieved the absolute peak of perfection and nothing would everchange again.
It was strange that this conviction of a static world should have been sogeneral, for these years were to see the start of the greatest changes thepoor old globe had ever experienced. South of the border, in a workshopfilled with curious machines, a silent man was putting the final touchesto a magic cylinder which would hum and rasp and squeak with a humanvoice. In a very short time thereafter two brothers would be running abicycle shop and dreaming of getting much closer than Icarus to the sunand stars. Strips of celluloid were being made which would flow througha contraption like a glorified magic lantern and would cause figures on ascreen to move. In a very few years there would be a race of horselesscarriages from Paris to Bordeaux and back at an average speed of fifteenmiles an hour!
Still more fateful, still more threatening to the peace and content of thisseemingly unchangeable world, the gay ten years were to see undergroundmovements starting, hatreds festering along Slavic rivers and Balkanmountains, black smoke belching from the tall chimneys of Essen andSkoda, and Pomeranian grenadiers goose-stepping with feverish haste.There was no hint of all this on the surface, nor would there be until afterthe turn of the century. People were to go on singing, laughing, eatingthree huge meals a day, and sleeping like tops, without any suspicion at allthat dark buds were beginning to sprout on the vines of wrath.
There was less suspicion perhaps in Balfour than in any other part. Thisbusy western Ontario city had a life so completely and passionately itsown that a meeting of the Bicycling Club or a fire on Holbrook Street wasof much more concern than all the rumors circulating in all the chancelleriesof Europe.
2
The conductor of the express train from Montreal walked through asuccession of close-smelling Pullman cars until he reached the first of theday coaches. It was a few minutes past seven only, but most of the passengershad aroused themselves already from their uneasy slumbers on thestraight-up-and-down seats and were gazing with apathetic eyes at thewhite landscape. The whining voices of children and the scolding tonesof harassed mothers filled the coach. He did not pause until he reached aseat occupied by a small boy and a small satchel of red carpet.
“Well, Ludar,” he said in a cheerful voice. “And how are you thismorning?”
“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 wearingon his white and pinched face an expression of the utmost unhappiness.His clothes consisted of a belted coat and knickerbockers of graycorduroy, badly rumpled and travel-stained, and heavy shoes with brass onthe toes to prevent scuffing. Pulling himself together out of deference toauthority, 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 inpeaked cap and shiny braid would decide on some form of punishmentfor him. “The food came up again,” he explained. In an attempt at extenuationhe added, “I get sick very easy, sir.”
He might have gone on to say that it had been like this ever since hegot off the boat at that big city called Halifax and started taking trains.There had always been people around him, asking questions and staringas though he had come right out of a zoo; mostly ladies with faces whichwere stern though they tried to be friendly, telling him what to do andwaiting severely until he obeyed. Generally it had been about food.Everyone assumed that he was on the point of starvation and that it wastheir duty to take him off the train at the first opportunity and ply himwith dishes he did not like. It did not matter how much he protested thathe was not hungry. He must be hungry, a boy traveling alone like thiswithout 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 thesame: ham, which he disliked; eggs, which made him sick; and greasyfried potatoes, which turned his stomach at the first glance—all of itwashed down by a bitter-tasting drink called coffee, which scalded histhroat. Eating had never been a pleasure anyway because most foods disagreedwith him. However, he would swallow as much as he could, whichwas never enough to satisfy the persistent benevolence which was payingfifteen or twenty cents to stuff him full. He would be led back to thecoach in a disapproving silence which made it clear that he had beenungrateful.
As soon as the train started, of course, he would be sick. Unfortunatelyhis weak stomach was not considerate enough to manifest its symptomsgradually so that things could be taken care of in time. Instead therewould be a violent retching and all the unwelcome food would be transferredto the world around him, most particularly to his own clothes. Aman in uniform, with a disgusted look on his face and a pail of water anda mop in his hands, would come along and say: “Again, eh! You dirtylittle devil, you!” While the work of cleaning up proceeded, Ludar wouldlie back on the hard seat, pale and sick and so ashamed of himself that hewould turn away when anyone