The Flying Years

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The Flying Years

Frederick Niven

Afterword by Alison Calder

Wilfrid Laurier University Press acknowledges the support of the Canada Council for the Arts for our publishing program. We acknowledge the financial support of the Government of Canada through its Book Publishing Industry Development Program for our publishing activities. This work was supported by the Research Support Fund.

Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

Niven, Frederick, 1878–1944, author

     The flying years / Frederick Niven ; afterword by Alison Calder.

(Early Canadian literature series)

Issued in print and electronic formats.

ISBN 978-1-77112-074-6 (pbk.).—ISBN 978-1-77112-075-3 (pdf).—

ISBN 978-1-77112-076-0 (epub).

I. Title. II. Series: Early Canadian literature series

PS8527.I96F6 2015     C813’.52     C2015-902667-9

                                                  C2015-902668-7

Cover design and text design by Blakeley Words+Pictures. Cover photo: Author Frederick Niven smoking a cigarette, Banff, Alberta, ca. 1930s. Photo by Associated Screen News Limited, Banff. Glenbow Museum, PA-3096-3-1.

© 2015 Wilfrid Laurier University Press

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Contents

Series Editor’s Preface by Benjamin Lefebvre

The Flying Years

Afterword by Alison Calder

Series Editor’s Preface

Frederick John Niven was born to Scottish parents in Valparaiso, Chile, on 31 March 1878. Educated in Glasgow, he visited British Columbia as a young adult and worked as a writer, librarian, journalist, and labourer in both the United Kingdom and Canada. By the time he and his wife Pauline (née Quelch) had settled permanently in British Columbia in 1920, Niven was already the author of several books with Canadian and Scottish settings, beginning with The Lost Cabin Mine (1908), an adventure story set in the Canadian West; indeed, as Globe and Mail literary critic William Arthur Deacon noted in 1954, Niven was the first writer to move to Canada with a well-established reputation (30). He continued to publish volumes of fiction, non-fiction, and poetry until his death, in Vancouver, on 30 January 1948 (see Watters 110, 253–54, 401, 696).

As Dick Harrison argues in The Oxford Companion to Canadian Literature (1983), Niven remains important to Canadian literature because he brought to bear on western experience a developed writing talent and a sense of British literary and cultural traditions. He became an immigrant as distinct from a colonial writer, recreating the West in a Canadian perspective (563). His chief contribution to Canadian literature, according to Harrison, consists of three novels spanning the settlement of the West and incorporating [Niven’s] most serious themes: The Flying Years (1935), Mine Inheritance (1940), and the posthumously published The Transplanted (1944). Daniel Coleman, discussing The Flying Years in his book White Civility, refers to the novel as a kind of historical panorama of the prairie region’s development between 1850 and 1920, from the end of the fur-trade system to the restriction of Plains First Nations to reserves, and from the early settlement of refugees from the Highland clearances among the Red River Métis to the emergence of Calgary as a centre of industrial and commercial power (197). While an unsigned Globe and Mail review of The Transplanted called The Flying Years a wonderfully moving account of the opening of the Canadian West (Novel 16), subsequent critics located the value of Niven’s work in terms of social history rather than literary quality: Desmond Pacey, for instance, calls these three novels by Niven a most ambitious undertaking, and although they fail fully to realize their author’s somewhat grandiose intentions they are probably the best historical novels yet produced of and in this area (174).

The Flying Years was first published by the London firm Collins in 1935; it was reprinted, with a number of textual variations, by McClelland and Stewart in 1974 as part of its New Canadian Library series, with an introduction by Jan de Bruyn. This Early Canadian Literature edition contains the full text of the Collins edition. It corrects obvious typographical errors (including the French word voilà, which appears consistently in the original without the accent) and regularizes the spelling of Stoney (which appears at times in the original edition as Stony), but it lets stand a number of archaic and inconsistent forms of spelling, capitalization, and hyphenation. It makes one substantive correction: on page 287 of this edition, the phrase Angus received reads erroneously as Dan received in the original edition.

BENJAMIN LEFEBVRE

Works Cited

Coleman, Daniel. White Civility: The Literary Project of English Canada. Toronto: U of Toronto P, 2006. Print.

Deacon, William Arthur. The Fly Leaf. Globe and Mail 24 July 1954: 30. ProQuest Historical Newspapers. Web. 29 Apr. 2015.

Harrison, Dick. Niven, Frederick. The Oxford Companion to Canadian Literature. Ed. William Toye. Toronto: Oxford UP, 1983. 562–63. Print.

Niven, Frederick. The Flying Years. London: Collins, 1935. Print.

_____. The Flying Years. 1935. Toronto: McClelland and Stewart, 1974. Print. New Canadian Library.

_____. The Lost Cabin Mine. 1908. Toronto: Henry Frowde, 1909. Internet Archive. Web. 1 May 2015.

_____. Mine Inheritance. New York: Macmillan, 1940. Print.

_____. The Transplanted. Toronto: Collins, 1944. Print.

Novel of Scottish Pioneering in a British Columbia Valley. Rev. of The Transplanted, by Frederick Niven. Globe and Mail 25 Nov. 1944: 16. ProQuest Historical Newspapers. Web. 29 Apr. 2015.

Pacey, Desmond. Fiction 1920–1940. Literary History of Canada: Canadian Literature in English. Vol. 2. 2nd ed. Ed. Carl F. Klinck. Toronto: U of Toronto P, 1976. 168–204. Print.

Watters, Reginald Eyre. A Check List of Canadian Literature and Background Materials 1628–1950. Toronto: U of Toronto P, 1959. Print.

The

Flying Years

Dedicatory Letter to I.A. Richards

My dear Richards,

There is no need to remind you—far in terrestrial space though the Columbia Valley may be from Magdalene College—of September, 1933. A magic gets hold of some days and they remain with you forever . . . So I read—a reference to certain days in that September—in one of those welcome letters that Dorothy and you collaborate upon.

The sage-brush, as you will remember, was in full yellow bloom on the slopes of the foot-hills and the peaks you were going to climb were austere in distance. The saddle-horses and the pack-horses that were to carry you to your base camp had gone out on their way to the road’s end, and in Wilmer, all sunlight and the ricochetting of a clicking grasshopper or two, you waited for the car in which you were to follow them. There, after talk of this and that, you asked me: And what are you doing just now? So I outlined to you The Flying Years of which not a word was written then. I will not excessively say that you upheld me from falling and strengthened my feeble knees. I was not so hopeless as all that either of being able to tell something of them or of finding ears, somewhere, to hear; but I did have, at the back of my mind, a melancholy whisper of Who cares? Your interest, your enthusiasm, silenced it. The day came of All set. There was the car spinning away, and you called through its dust that was enveloping me, for a parting word: Don’t let the years fly too long.

I can’t tell you how I appreciated that nor how memory of it has heartened me in the writing of this book that I am dedicating to you—in the hope that you will find it not too grievously lacking in what, as I outlined it to you, you felt it should contain and convey.

Yours,

Frederick Niven.

Apart from the historic characters in this novel no portrait

is intended of any person.

Contents

Chapter I

Eviction

Memory, as the years slipped past, always served Angus Munro with Loch Brendan through a web of yammering gulls, but his mother remembered it through a mist of tears.

There had come to her no omen that the Munros were to leave there. An omen would have hinted the Hand of God in it, however strangely, whereas there seemed to be only the callousness and rapacity of man. Not that any supernatural warning was needed in face of the bitter evidences, but her folk were prone to omens. Her grandmother, as she often told, when recounting the stories of the land, had been waked one night in the ’45 by her brother who was, as they said, out. She had sat up in bed, staring at him in the dusk of the kitchen. The smouldering seed of the fire had blazed to a sudden puff of air—and he it was, without doubt, in that flicker of light. He shook his head to her, forlorn-like, as in a sign that something had miscarried, and then was gone. So you see, Angus’s mother would say, my granny was fully prepared when the news came that her brother was dead on Culloden Field.

As for herself, when the news came that Angus’s brother, Robin, had been drowned in the Sound, she was prepared. She took it as his father did not. Daniel Munro seemed to lose his reason for a while, marching to and fro like a soldier on sentry-go, back and forth. At each sudden advance he appeared to be going for help; then he would halt, aware that there was no help, stand dazed a moment, wheel, and stride off again—back and forth. But Mrs. Munro spoke slowly:

That was the death-candles burning over the Sound last night, said she. I should never have let him go this day. I was warned.

She was intimate with ghosts. Shadows, by the way, was the word for them among another folk in another land to which they were all going—the father grimly, the mother in tears, the lad with a sense of adventuring.

They were no great readers in Brendan in those days, though in the winter great story-tellers, while sleet scoured the window and night gave a hollow moan in the chimney, with narratives of the old days, myth and truth: of King Hakon; of the Norse woman with the flame-coloured hair; of Cromwell’s soldiers that bided in Inverness after the wars and, surrounded there by the Gaelic speech, kept pure amongst themselves their own tongue and passed on to their bairns the fine language of their time, so that, in after years, Sassenach philologists would comment on how beautiful was the English the folk of Inverness spoke; of Prince Charles Stuart; of Cluny in his cage on Ben Alder when it was supposed by most that he was long since in France; of the smoking out of the Macdonalds in the cave of Sciur; of the pixies and the kelpies.

Angus’s father saw the change coming and was for the boy conning his book. The English they had was thus book-English, their natural speech being the Gaelic. Even Mrs. Munro learnt to speak it—and with the prettiest lilt. But the point here is that between his mother’s old stories and the books that his father got for him, and a bent he had for knowing what was happening on the hills and the lochs and the sea—a sort of living with the weather—the boy (sixteen then) had his own kind of private excitement and happiness in life. He had his own gossip too. He would sooner hear of a whiskered seal flapping on to the Black Rocks with gruff bark like an old man’s cough, than any yatter of human follies and failings.

The eviction at Brendan was quieter than some. The Munros expected it. Daniel possessed a booklet—Information for Emigrants to British North America. PUBLISHED BY AUTHORITY (that on the title-page gave them deep confidence in it), Price Sixpence—and he and Angus assuredly conned it, reading all its information on New Brunswick, Nova Scotia, Prince Edward’s Island, on Eastern (Lower) Canada, on Western (Upper) Canada, and were a little troubled that the Western Canada it touched upon was not the west to which they were going. They were going even beyond Western (Upper) Canada. They made themselves acquainted, hopefully, with the value out there of the sovereign and the guinea, and discovered what an American Eagle was worth, a Spanish minted doubloon, a Spanish milled dollar, and what was a pistareen. A great mixture of coins there seemed to be in the Canadas, from the French five-franc piece to the Mexican dollar. They learnt that there were Emigrant Sheds at the landing-place for those who could not incur the expense of lodging, in which they could sleep a night if necessary, and they made computation of how much food they should cook in preparation for their further journey into that west beyond the tabulated west of the booklet. It was cheering to note that the further one went the higher were the wages paid for labour.

Folk ate well in the Canadas by all accounts, never there, as in Scotland, on the edge of starvation. A man could kill his deer without by your leave of any, and there were crops other than of poor oats and potatoes. There was even a sugar tree. Sugar from a tree! Now, there was a land for you! Think on it! Yes, there was a lot of talk of the Canadas before they were indeed started on their way thither.

Their neighbours, the Grants (Jessie Grant was the lass of Angus’s calf-love), were also leaving Brendan, but not for the Canadas. There were but Jessie and her mother, the father having been drowned in the boat accident that took Robin Munro. They were going to Glasgow to live with Mrs. Grant’s sister, married to an ex-soldier, Cameron by name, a big-hearted man who had set up as a smith, was doing fine there, and had offered, himself, to look after them.

The events of the Highlands and the isles of that period put a kind of dolour into even the young, ageing them somewhat, gave them, too soon, a sense of distrust in Life. Happiness and trouble were blent in their eyes and the elders seemed always to be admonishing them in this fashion: There’s no one can go courting these days.

There’s no lad can plight troth with a lass these days.

Nevertheless, there they were—Jessie and Angus—in the silver-green shade of a birch-wood by Loch Brendan, betwixt Brendan and the point, on the morning of the day of departure. To each the proximity of the other was a rare, blessed, mysterious and secret anodyne for the public woe that they could not escape.

If I make a way in the Canadas— Angus began.

Jessie interrupted him.

I’m sure of myself but I’m not sure of you, she said.

What, exactly, did she mean? What was it in him, he wondered, that she was not sure of?

Would you wait for me? he asked her.

I’ll not say yes, she answered, because— she left the rest in air.

Because of what, Jessie? He repeated her name, urgently: Jessie, Jessie . . .

She sighed his name for the only reply, held her face up to him. As he bent kissing her she turned it away in some young distress, then suddenly drew him close, responding to his caresses. Next moment she abruptly disengaged herself, shook her head, her cheeks pallid.

No promises! she implored. I’m sure of myself but I’m not sure of you. There’s mother calling.

She pressed a hand against his breast and ran from him as though she were running also, in agitation, in deep distress, from herself. At the bend of the road she halted and looked round. There they stood looking one to the other—for an eternity, it seemed; then she turned and was gone from sight and he walked home by the loch-side, the incoming Atlantic tide toying with the seaweed fringe of Scotland along the rocks.

By the door stood a group of men, talking. It was the old talk (repetitive as that of the young lovers on their uncertainties), talk upon the plight of the people in that grandly beautiful land that the Munros were leaving.

Yes, that is so. Join the army! Join the army! one was saying to Daniel. That’s all for some of them.

It’s a poor consolation for a lad, he replied, sticking his bayonet into the belly of a Rooshian, to imagine that he is fighting for his own and stabbing into his real enemies, the men who have put him and his out of house and home. The army! It might be ordered against the French next, instead of to help the Turks against the Rooshians, for all we know, as it was when I was a lad. And the French were good friends to the Scots in the ’45.

The old talk, the old talk. Another spoke.

They say it’s not to make room for the deer that we must go, he said. They say that never was any thrust out to make room for deer for them to shoot. Quibbles! Quibbles! To make room for sheep it is—and then the sheep make room for the deer. They’ll bring up that lie if ever we get the Commission of Inquiry that some talk of.

Yes, and it’s been going on since the ’45, declared Munro. It was different, though, when it was the Sassenach that came with fire and sword. When a man’s foes shall be they of his own household it is bitter!

Angus sidled past them into the house. Just then, from one of the further cottages up near the bracken and the heather (that soon would encroach everywhere there), came the preliminary sounds, the intermittent drones, of a bagpipe. Who could be thinking of piping over the tying of the last symbolic knots on the ropes round tin trunks and boxes? There was Mrs. Munro plucking and plucking at her underlip, looking out of the window, perhaps at Ben Chatton or perhaps at a lone magpie veering by with some significance for her superstitious mind.

They tell me there are places where they do not dare to do it, Angus heard his father say, even with the rent far in arrears. And why? Because clear it is that there would be bloodshed if they tried. They tell me that at some places they have answered the threat of eviction by driving the deer into the sea. Ah, well, by the grace of God some have bowels of compassion. There is a Macleod, now, when the potatoes failed, who fed his people himself to tide them over instead of turning them out. There would be no faith in any landlord left if it wasn’t for one or two like him. But they are not in the majority. ‘It’s my land to do with as I please.’ That’s the usual. It’s bitter! First of all driven off the good lands on to poor, and then we have it flung at us, ‘Would you not be better to go to a new country instead of trying to live on land like that—and be grateful if you have your passage money given you?’ Well! He came indoors. Give me a hand, Angus, with this trunk.

They carried it out. When they went in again, Mrs. Munro had ended her reverie at the window and was drying her eyes.

I remember a story my mother told me of a Highlander in Quebec, she said, speaking as out of a dwam.

Her husband stared at her in amazement, thinking she was about to launch a tale of some omen, but it was not so.

It was in the days when the colonists in America rebelled against the arrogance of King George the Third, said she, ’75 or thereby. A Cameron he was. He had not joined the Royal Highland Emigrants’ Regiment there but when the rebelling colonists came to assault Quebec he did do his part in the repulsing of the attack, whatever. So he was offered pay after the fight for his services. Says he, this Cameron lad who had gone to the Canadas after the ’45, says he, ‘I will help to defend the country from the invaders but I will not take service under the House of Hanover.’ That was the spirit! Now, what was I telling you this for? she asked herself. Oh, yes, I know—the spirit in that. Yes, we are going, but we’ll go proud.

She raised her head and with a glare dared the tears to come again.

Perhaps the clergy are right, she exclaimed suddenly, over another thought.

In what way? asked Daniel.

When they tell us it is the will of God that we go as a punishment for sins, and that any who offer resistance are in danger of hell-fire for ever.

The clergy, said Daniel, have their livings from the landlords. They know who butters their bread.

That sounds like profanity! she cried out.

I’m not talking of the Almighty, said he. I am talking of the clergy—an entirely different consideration. They call me a heretic, and if trying to educate yourself and your issue is heresy, then heretic I am. But I’m not talking profanity.

She looked at him, troubled. His thoughts were sometimes beyond her.

The blast of a siren sounded and Angus peered out of the doorway. There was the boat on which they were to embark, splitting the dark water as a plough’s coulter the dark spring loam. The high corries answered with their echoes to her bellow, the gulls rose and volleyed in air, their silver reflections flickering among the loch’s reflection of the hills.

Silently they looked their last on the shell of the home. Afternoon having come, an interior dusk was already in corners. It was as if they were ghosts visiting the place where once they had been part of the active life of earth.

Scotland, said Munro, and again, Scotland. Just a few sad songs and old ballads! That’s all. I see it getting worse every year. God knows what the end will be. And yet—and yet—we’ll take Scotland with us: a kingdom of the mind.

He stooped at the rear window. His wife stepped over and stood beside him, and he put an arm round her. By the way they bowed Angus realised that they were looking toward the graveyard where Robin lay, he who was drowned the day after Mrs. Munro saw what she called the death-candles out at sea. Though he was but sixteen, Angus had some sense in him and hurried out, left them, so that when they turned they would not find him there indecently staring like a gowk of no understanding.

The surge of waves broke out on the rocks, an orderly smashing pulse of water from the steamer’s wake. She was out there, come to rest, waiting for them. It was then that Daniel Munro lost his control after that grand thought of how they would take Scotland with them, a kingdom of the mind.

To hell with Scotland! he broke out.

There was a silence then like the silence left when the wind passes through a wood of pines. It was as if Nature held breath, as if the spinning of the world ceased a moment—a moment that belonged to horror as over a sin against the Holy Ghost.

You should not have said that, Mrs. Munro whimpered.

No, I should not have said that, he whispered. I didn’t mean it, I didn’t mean it.

And as for Peter came the crowing of the cock, there rose the sound of the bagpipes through Brendan, in the slow measure of a coronach.

Chapter II

Red River

The odours of the new land, before they had sighted it, came out to meet them through a white mist over the sea, odours of robustiously scented forests. The steamer crawled on, calling and calling with her siren till the vapour was dazzlingly infiltrated with sunlight and then, by the sunlight, dissipated away—and there were rocky promontories glittering a welcome.

Further than Lower Canada, further than Upper Canada they were going because of friends in the country beyond, freends, indeed—which is to say, in the Scots sense, relatives. Had it not been for these the Munros would have been much in the condition of some of their fellow-voyagers who had merely had their passage paid for them. Landing with scarcely a penny and bound chiefly for the neighbourhood of Toronto (that used to be called York when Angus’s mother was a girl), most of them with no word of English, nothing but the Gaelic, they were in anxious plight. By the charity of their compatriots in the land, given in such a way that the name for it was changed to hospitality, these went on to their journey’s end.

The Munros’ freends in the Red River Settlement—the Frasers—had sent them some financial assistance. In return for that Daniel, before taking up his own land, was to help Ian Fraser on his; and Angus, no doubt, would be working out the while for wages—or such was the suggested plan.

Of the Red River Settlement Mrs. Munro had some woeful stories. She would narrate how the first Highlanders that went there had been hardly used, ordered back by the North-West Fur Company’s representatives, and might have been all homeless again had it not been for a Macleod—a smith—who made shot out of some chains, loaded it into an old cannon he found there, and defied those who would turn them back, with a handful of men at his side. Her husband had to remind her that that was a while back, in her grandmother’s day, and that the Settlement had vastly changed since then—that here was 1856 and not 1815.

They went by train (not by such wilderness waterways as those people of two generations back had gone, from Hudson’s Bay to Lake Winnipeg), by train to Minnesota, sleeping on the train, eating on the train, a basket of provisions with them for the journey. A young man walked through the coaches now and then with boxes of a crisp sort of biscuit new to them called crackers, and with fruit. Mrs. Munro, after one sampling of his peaches, would resolutely turn her eyes away on hearing him chant his seductive wares. So juicy were these peaches that she had to spread her handkerchief—her pocket-napkin—on her knees when eating them. Never had she known such lusciousness.

Pea-ches! Or-an-ges! came the young man’s cry, and her head would turn and she would stare hard out of the window.

We have our basket of sufficient food, said she, and if I succumb to the temptation of these fruits, and this craving for them, we will have to spend all ere we come to journey’s end, whatever!

Leaving the train at St. Cloud they went on by stagecoach, a four-horse coach, clip-clopping along in a rhythm that at times made the lids droop, sleepy, over eyes that would fain see all the way, clip-clopping and swaying through forests the heady odour of which excited young Angus, and across clearings where stumps smouldered, and by the side of lonely rushy lakes like dropped fragments of blue sky. Minnesota, the driver told Mrs. Munro, was a Sioux Indian word meaning sky-reflecting water. Each night they stopped at some rest-house by the wayside. Some of the men at these places Mrs. Munro thought the most fearsome she had ever seen, grim of visage and with revolvers at their belts in big holsters. But if ever she and one of them came face to face in a doorway it was always, Pardon me, ma’am, and hats off. And Ma’am it was at the tables when they passed her the cruets. They did not wear their armaments when eating, always, she noticed, before they came into the dining-room, as casually as they hung up their hats, handing to the proprietors of the places their ammunition belts with the pistols attached, as in some usage or courtesy of the country.

As she whispered to him her comments on the ways of this region, Daniel thought she was beginning to be eased of the sense of being far from home which clearly had shadowed her hitherto. But when they came to Abercrombie on the Red River and she discovered that there they had still further to go, aboard a boat, she came near to breaking down. Every roll of the train-wheels, the drumming of the stage-coach horses’ hoofs, the thrashing of the big sternwheel on the river-boat, told her the same refrain—A far cry to Loch Brendan.

As for the Settlement: each of them on arrival promptly observed it in a different way, and in that difference you have all three measured and weighed. Mrs. Munro saw the houses as alien, they being built of logs. Munro saw them as not altogether strange, they being thatched; and Angus saw them as romantic, they being of log with thatch. The lack of a mountain-side on which to rest their eyes was dreadful to Mrs. Munro, to Mr. Munro odd, to Angus novel and exciting.

Their freends, the Frasers, welcomed them warmly. Ian Fraser, the father, was working out at the time with a wheelwright for wages, toward getting money instead of getting exchanges of goods for his produce. On the steamship International, which had brought them there, he found a job for Angus as deck-hand. Daniel, according to their agreement, began to work on the farm.

A happy family—Fraser and his wife, Hector, the son, about eleven then, Fiona, between five and six, and little Flora, age four, named after her mother. There was no impression of a cloud over life there as at Loch Brendan, but a sense of freedom to the point of wildness. With the family increasing they had added to the original house, and with a little contrivance there was room for the Munros.

Several times during the days that followed his arrival there, young Angus remembered how