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The Marriage Of Lit-Lit

By Jack London

WHEN John Fox came into a country where whiskey freezes solid and may be used as a paper weight for a large part of the year, he came without the ideals and illusions which usually hamper the progress of more delicately nurtured adventurers. Born and reared on the frontier fringe of the United States, he took with him into Canada a primitive cast of mind, an elemental simplicity and grip on things, as it were, which insured him immediate success in his new career. From a mere servant of the Hudson's Bay Company, driving a paddle with the voyageurs and carrying goods on his back across the portages he swiftly rose to a Factorship and took charge of a trading post at Fort Angelus.
     Here, because of his elemental simplicity, he took to himself a native wife, and by reason of the connubial bliss which followed he escaped the unrest and vain longings which curse the days of more fastidious men, spoil their work and conquer them in the end. He lived contentedly, was at single purposes with the business he was set there to do, and achieved a brilliant record in the service of the Company. About this time his wife died, was claimed by her people, and buried with savage circumstance in a tin trunk in the top of a tree.
     Two sons she had borne him, and when the Company promoted him he journeyed with them still deeper into the vastness of the Northwest Territory to a place called Sin Rock, where he took charge of a new post in a more important fur field. Here he spent several lonely and depressing months, eminently disgusted with the unprepossessing appearance of the Indian maidens, and greatly worried by his growing sons who stood in need of a mother's care. Then his eyes chanced upon Lit-lit.
     "Lit-lit— well, she is Lit-lit," was the fashion in which he despairingly described her to his chief clerk, Alexander McLean.
     McLean was too fresh from his Scottish upbringing—"not dry behind the ears yet," John Fox put it—to take to the marriage customs of the country. Nevertheless he was not averse to the Factor imperiling his own immortal soul, and, especially, feeling an ominous attraction himself for Lit-lit, he was somberly to clinch his own soul's safety by seeing her married to the Factor.
     Nor is it to be wondered at that McLean's austere Scotch soul stood in danger of being thawed in the sunshine of Lit-lit's eyes. She was pretty, and slender, and willowy, without the massive face and temperamental stolidity of the average squaw. "Lit-lit," so called from her fashion, even as a child, of being fluttery, of darting about from place to place like a butterfly, of being inconsequent and merry, and of laughing as lightly as she darted and danced about.
     Lit-lit was the daughter of Snettishane, a prominent chief in the tribe, by a half-breed mother, and to him the Factor fared casually one summer day to open negotiations of marriage. He sat with the chief in the smoke of a mosquito-smudge before his lodge, and together they talked about everything under the sun, or, at least, everything which in the Northland is under the sun, with the sole exception of marriage. John Fox had come particularly to talk of marriage; Snettishane knew it, and John Fox knew he knew it, wherefore the subject was religiously avoided. This is alleged to be Indian subtlety. In reality it is transparent simplicity.
     The hours slipped by, and Fox and Snettishane smoked interminable pipes, looking each other in the eyes with a guilelessness superbly histrionic. In the mid-afternoon McLean and his brother clerk, McTavish, strolled past, innocently uninterested, on their way to the river. When they strolled back again, an hour later, Fox and Snettishane had attained to a ceremonious discussion of the condition and quality of the gunpowder and bacon which the Company was offering in trade. Meanwhile Lit-lit, divining the Factor's errand, had crept in under the rear wall of the lodge and through the front flap was peeping out at the two logomachists by the mosquito-smudge. She was flushed and happy-eyed, proud that no less a man than the Factor (who stood next to God in the Northland hierarchy) had singled her out, femininely curious to see at close range what manner of man he was. Sun-glare on the ice, camp-smoke and weather-beat had burned his face to a copper-brown, so that her father was as fair as he while she was fairer. She was remotely glad of this, and more immediately glad that he was large and strong, though his great black beard half-frightened her, it was so strange.
     Being very young, she was unversed in the ways of men. Seventeen times she had seen the sun travel south and lose itself beyond the sky-line, and seventeen times she had seen it travel back again and ride the sky day and night till there was no night at all. And through these years she had been cherished jealously by Snettishane, who stood between her and all suitors, listening disdainfully to the young hunters as they bid for her hand, and turning them away as though she were beyond price. Snettishane was a mercenary. Lit-lit was to him an investment. She represented so much capital, from which he expected to receive, not a certain definite interest, but an incalculable interest.
     And having thus been reared in a manner as near to a nunnery as tribal conditions would permit, it was with a great and maidenly anxiety that she peeped out at the man who had surely come for her, at the husband who was to teach her all that was yet unlearned of life, at the masterful being whose word was to be her law and who was to mete and bound her actions and comportment for the rest of her days.
     But, peeping through the front flap of the lodge, flushed and thrilling at the strange destiny reaching out for her, she grew disappointed as the day wore along and the Factor and her father still talked pompously of things concerning other things and not connected with marriage things at all. As the sun sank lower and lower toward the north and midnight approached, the Factor began making unmistakable preparations of departure. As he turned to stride away Lit-lit's heart sank; but it rose again as he halted, half-turning on one heel.
     "Oh, by the way, Snettishane," he said, "I want a squaw to wash for me and mend my clothes."
     Snettishane grunted and suggested Wanidani, who was an old woman and toothless.
     "No, no," interposed the Factor. "What I want is a wife. I've been kind of thinking about it, and the thought just struck me that you might know of some one that would suit."
     Snettishane looked interested, whereupon the Factor retraced his steps, casually and carelessly to linger and discuss this new and incidental topic.
     "Kattou?" suggested Snettishane.
     "She has but one eye," objected the Factor.
     "Laska?"
     "Her knees be wide apart when she stands upright. Kips, your biggest dog, can leap between her knees when she stands upright."
     "Senatee?" went on the imperturbable Snettishane.
     But John Fox feigned anger, crying, "What foolishness is this? Am I old, that thou shouldst mate me with old women? Am I toothless? lame of leg? blind of eye? Or am I poor that no bright-eyed maiden may look with favor upon me? Behold! I am the Factor, both rich and great, a power in the land, whose speech makes men trembled and is obeyed!"
     Snettishane was inwardly pleased though his sphinx-like visage never relaxed. He was drawing the Factor, and making him break ground. Being a creature so elemental as to have room for but one idea at a time, Snettishane could pursue that one idea a greater distance than could John Fox. For John Fox, elemental as he was, was still complex enough to entertain several glimmering ideas at a time, which debarred him from pursuing the one as single-heartedly or as far as did the chief.
     Snettishane calmly continued calling the roster of eligible maidens, which name by name, as fast as uttered, were stamped ineligible by John Fox, with specified objections appended. Again he gave it up and started to return to the Fort. Snettishane watched him go, making no effort to stop him, but seeing him, in the end stop himself.
     "Come to think of it," the Factor remarked, "we both of us forgot Lit-lit. Now I wonder if she'll suit me?"
     Snettishane met the suggestion with a mirthless face, behind the mask of which his soul grinned wide. It was a distinct victory. Had the Factor gone but one step farther, perforce Snettishane would himself have mentioned the name of Lit-lit, but—the Factor had not gone that one step farther.
     The chief was non-committal concerning Lit-lit's suitability, till he drove the white man into taking the next step in the order of procedure.
     "Well," the Factor mediated aloud, "the only way to find out is to make a try of it." He raised his voice. "So I will give for Lit-lit ten blankets and three pounds of tobacco which is good tobacco."
     Snettishane replied with a gesture which seemed to say that all the blankets and tobacco in all the world could not compensate him for the loss of Lit-lit and her manifold virtues. When pressed by the Factor to set a price, he coolly placed it at five hundred blankets, ten guns, fifty pounds of tobacco, twenty scarlet cloths, ten bottles of rum, a music box, and lastly, the good will and best offices of the Factor with a place by his fire.
     The Factor apparently suffered a stroke of apoplexy, which stroke was successful in reducing the blankets to two hundred and in cutting out the place by the fire—an unheard of condition in the marriages of white men with the daughters of the soil. In the end, after three hours more of chaffering, they came to an agreement. For Lit-lit Snettishane was to receive one hundred blankets, five pounds of tobacco, three guns, and a bottle of rum, good will and best offices included, which, according to John Fox, was ten blankets and a gun more than she was worth. And as he went home through the "wee sma'" hours, the three o'clock sun blazing in the due northeast, he was unpleasantly aware that Snettishane had bested him over the bargain.
     Snettishane, tired and victorious, sought his bed, and discovered Lit-lit before she could escape from the lodge.
     He grunted knowingly, "Thou hast seen. Thou hast heard. Wherefore it be plain to thee thy father's very great wisdom and understanding. I have made for thee a great match. Heed my words and walk in the way of my words, go when I say go, come when I bid thee come, and we shall grow fat with the wealth of this big white man who is a fool according to his bigness."
     The next day no trading was done at the store. The Factor opened whiskey before breakfast to the delight of McLean and McTavish, gave his dogs double rations, and wore his best moccasins. Outside the Fort preparations were under way for a potlatch. Potlatch means "a giving," and John Fox's intention was to signalize his marriage with Lit-lit by a potlatch as generous as she was good-looking. In the afternoon the whole tribe gathered to the feast. Men, women, children and dogs gorged to repletion, nor was there one person, even among the chance visitors and stray hunters from other tribes, who failed to receive some token of the bridegroom's largess.
     Lit-lit, tearfully shy and frightened, was bedecked by her bearded husband with a new calico dress, splendidly beaded moccasins, a gorgeous silk handkerchief over her raven hair, a purple scarf about her throat, brass ear-rings and finger-rings, and a whole pint of pinchbeck jewelry, including a Waterbury watch. Snettishane could scarce contain himself at the spectacle, but watching his chance drew her aside from the feast.
     "Not this night, nor the next night," he began ponderously, "but in the nights to come when I shall call like a raven by the river bank, it is for thee to rise up from thy big husband who is a fool and come to me."
     "Nay, nay," he went on hastily, at sight of the dismay in her face at turning her back upon her wonderful new life. "For no sooner shall this happen, than thy big husband who is a fool will come wailing to my lodge. Then it is for thee to wail likewise, claiming that this thing is not well, and that the other thing thou dost not like, and that to be the wife of the Factor is more than thou didst bargain for, only wilt thou be content with more blankets, and more tobacco, and more wealth of various sorts for thy poor old father Snettishane. Remember well, when I call in the night, like a raven, from the river bank."
     Lit-lit nodded; for to disobey her father was a peril she knew of well; and furthermore, it was a little thing he asked, a short separation from the Factor, who would know only greater gladness at having her back. She returned to the feast, and, midnight being well at hand, the Factor sought her out and led her away to the Fort amid joking and outcry in which the squaws were especially conspicuous.
     Lit-lit quickly found that married life with the head man of a fort was even better than she had dreamed. No longer did she have to fetch wood and water and wait hand and foot upon cantankerous men folk. For the first time in her life she could lie abed till breakfast was on the table. And what a bed!—clean and soft, and comfortable as no bed she had ever known. And such food! Flour, cooked into biscuits, hot-cakes, and bread, three times a day and every day and all one wanted! Such prodigality was hardly believable.
     To add to her contentment, the Factor was cunningly kind. He had buried one wife, and he knew how to drive with a slack rein which went firm only on occasion, and then went very firm. "Lit-lit is boss of this ranch," he announced significantly at the table the morning after the wedding. "What she says, goes. Understand?" And McLean and McTavish understood. Also, they knew that the Factor had a heavy hand.
     But Lit-lit did not take advantage. Taking a leaf from the book of her husband, she at once assumed charge of his two growing sons, giving them added comforts and a measure of freedom like to that which he gave her. The two sons were loud in the praise of their new mother; McLean and McTavish lifted their voices, and the Factor bragged of the joys of matrimony, till the story of her good behavior and her husband's satisfaction became the property of all the dwellers in the Sin Rock district.
     Whereupon Snettishane, with vision of his incalculable interest keeping him awake at nights, thought it time to bestir himself. On the tenth night of her wedded life Lit-lit was awakened by the croaking of a raven, and she knew that Snettishane was waiting for her by the river bank. In her great happiness she had forgotten her pact, and now it came back to her with behind it all the childish terror of her father. For a time she lay in fear and trembling, loth to go, afraid to stay. But in the end the Factor won the silent victory, and his kindness, plus his great muscles and square jaw, nerved her to disregard Snettishane's call.
     But in the morning she arose very much afraid, and went about her duties in momentary fear of her father's coming. As the day wore along, however she began to recover her spirits. John Fox, soundly berating McLean and McTavish for some petty deriliction of duty, helped her to pluck up courage. She tried not to let him go out of her sight, and when she followed him into the huge cache and saw him twirling and tossing great bales around as though they were feather pillows, she felt strengthened in her disobedience to he father. Also (it was her first visit to the warehouse, and Sin Rock was the chief distributing point to several chains of lesser posts), she was astounded at the endlessness of the wealth there stored away.

     This sight, and the picture in her mind's eye of the bare lodge of Snettishane, put all doubts at rest. Yet she capped her conviction by a brief word with one of her stepsons. "White daddy good?" was what she asked. And the boy answered that his father was the best man he had ever known. That night the raven croaked again. On the night following the croaking was more persistent. It awoke the Factor, who tossed restlessly for a while. Then he said aloud, "Damn that raven," and Lit-lit laughed quietly under the blankets.
     In the morning, bright and early, Snettishane put in an ominous appearance, and was set to breakfast in the kitchen with Wanidani. He refused "squaw food," and a little later bearded his son-in-law where the trading was done. Having learned, he said, that his daughter was such a jewel, he had come for more blankets, more tobacco and more guns, especially more guns. He had certainly been cheated in her price, he held, and he had come for justice. But the Factor had neither blankets nor justice to spare. Whereupon he was informed that Snettishane had seen the missionary at Three Forks, who had notified him that such marriages were not made in heaven and that it was his father's duty to demand his daughter back.
     "I am a good Christian man now," Snettishane concluded. "I want my Lit-lit to go to heaven."
     The Factor's reply was short and to the point; for he directed his father-in-law to go to the heavenly antipodes, and by the scruff of the neck and the slack of the blanket propelled him on that trail as far as the door.
     But Snettishane sneaked around and in by the kitchen, cornered Lit-lit in the great living room of the Fort.
     "Mayhap thou didst sleep over sound last night when I called by the river bank," he began glowering darkly.
     "Nay, I was awake and heard." Her heart was beating as though it would choke her, but she went on steadily: "And the night before I was awake and heard, and yet again the night before."
     And thereat, out of her great happiness and out of the fear that it might be taken from her, she launched into an original and glowing address upon the status and rights of woman—the first new-woman lecture delivered north of Fifty-three.
     But it fell on unheeding ears. Snettishane was still in the dark ages. As she paused for breath he said threateningly: "To-night I shall call again like the raven."
     At this moment the Factor entered the room and again helped Snettishane on his way to the heavenly antipodes.
     That night the raven croaked more persistently than ever. Lit-lit, who was a light sleeper, heard and smiled. John Fox tossed restlessly. Then he awoke and tossed about with greater restlessness. He grumbled and snorted, swore under his breath, and finally flung out of bed. He groped his way to the great living room and from the rack took down a loaded shotgun—loaded with birdshot, left therein by the careless McTavish.
     The Factor crept carefully out of the Fort and down to the river. The croaking had ceased, but he stretched out in the long grass and waited. The air seemed a chilly balm and the earth, after the heat of the day, now and again breathed soothfully against him. The Factor, gathered into the rhythm of it all, dozed off with his head upon his arm and slept.
     Fifty yards away, head resting on his knees and with his back to John Fox, Snettishane likewise slept, gently conquered by the quietude of the night. An hour slipped by and then he awoke, and, without lifting his head, set the night vibrating with the hoarse gutturals of the raven call.
     The Factor roused, not with the abrupt start of civilized man, but with the swift and comprehensive glide from sleep to waking of the savage. In the night-light he made out a dark object in the midst of the grass and brought his gun to bear upon it. A second croak began to rise and he pulled the trigger. The crickets ceased from their sing-song chant, the wild fowl from their squabbling, and the raven croak broke midmost and died away in gasping silence.

     John Fox ran to the spot and reached for the thing he had killed, but his fingers closed on a coarse mop of hair and he turned Snettishane's face upward to the starlight. He knew how a shotgun scattered at fifty yards, and he knew that he had peppered Snettishane across the shoulders and in the small of the back. And Snettishane knew that he knew, but neither referred to it.
     "What doest thou here?" the Factor demanded. "It were time old bones should be in bed."
     "Old bones will not sleep," he said solemnly. "I weep for my daughter, for my daughter Lit-lit, who liveth and who yet is dead, and who goeth without doubt to the white man's hell."
     "Weep henceforth on the far bank, beyond earshot of the Fort," said John Fox turning on his heel, "for the noise of thy weeping is exceeding great and will not let one sleep of nights."
     "My heart is sore," Snettishane answered, "and my days and nights be black with sorrow."
     "As the raven is black," said John Fox.
     "As the raven is black," Snettishane said.
     Never again was the voice of the raven heard by the river bank. Lit-lit grows matronly day by day and is very happy. Also, there are sisters to the sons of John Fox's first wife who lies buried in a tree. Old Snettishane is no longer a visitor to the Fort, and spends long hours raising a thin, aged voice against the filial ingratitude of children in general and of his daughter Lit-lit in particular. His declining years are embittered by the knowledge that he was cheated, and even John Fox has withdrawn the assertion that the price for Lit-lit was too much by ten blankets and a gun.

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